


Ephemeris

by saderaladon



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Ass to Mouth, Bloodplay, Bodily Harm Kink, Bondage, Breathplay, Burial Kink, Burnplay, Cock Cages, Cock Torture, Cruelty and Kindness, Crying, Dildos, Dirty Talk, Dirty Talk About Feces, Disturbing stuff, Double Anal Penetration, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Ginger Fish is blessed by fortune, Guilt, I am a disgrace, It also contains SHIT, It's appalling, John 5 is complete, M/M, Metaphorical Horrors, Multi, Nipple Clamps, Offensive Dirty Talk, Please Forgive me, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Scat, Shame, Smoking, Sorta Double Anal Penetration, Spanking, This fucking text has it all, This fucking text lacks in cock slapping, Threesome - M/M/M, Tim Skold is a role model for monsters, but it's alright, emotional torture, it's mild, mild shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 07:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20042341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saderaladon/pseuds/saderaladon
Summary: Three fucked up dudes have loads of sex and weird dialogues.Also literary parallelism.





	Ephemeris

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings!
> 
> And now warnings right off the bat.  
This text is a sequel to all the previous Manson fics of mine. It's closely connected to everything that happened there. So, like, read them first. If you want to, that is.  
This text is set right after this one: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19812187  
There are stretches of time between the chapters. Stuff that happens within chapters also happens between them.  
I hope this text is more substance than empty space, but who knows.
> 
> This text might cause distress.  
Some fucked up things occur. Some fucked up things are discussed.  
Shit's present in this text. But if you survived it in the previous part, you'll no doubt get through this as well. That shit was rough. This shit is mild.
> 
> Be careful.  
Don't try this stuff at home. Don't worry, Tim Skold will try it for you.
> 
> Enjoy and be blessed by fortune.
> 
> English is not my native language. I make mistakes and have regrets.  
All characters are fictional and don't belong to me.

***

Tim holds him under water.

Tim holds Ginger under water, staring at him through the hot, bright, uncontainable solution of salt and dissolved oxygen, staring at the black holes of his eyes, at his beautiful condemned face, at the tentacle halo of his hair, at his overwhelming love gushing out of him.

Tim holds Ginger's accepting hands in his own, squeezing them tight, until Ginger's throat starts twitching.

Until his mouth is about to fall open for Tim once more.

Until Ginger is ready to take a breath.

Tim pulls him up and he takes that breath above the water, and Tim does as well, and the sudden flow of air hurts his lungs, and the sudden flow of units of speech hurts his ears.

"Shut up and breathe," Tim says then.

John holds both of them down when they finally become upright creatures again, standing there on the sand, having spent an eternity inhaling the air, having spent another one hugging and shivering in each other's embrace, having spent yet one more of those exhaling the air in bursts of hysterical laughter, trying to push each other off the mattress and then leaving it entirely, leaving it to be carried away by the waves, swimming to the shore, exhausted and barely present and sunburnt.

"Where the fuck have you two been?" John asks.

Tim holds John's hips tight when they fuck him on his hands and knees two hours later.

Tim holds a bag in one of his hands and a can of beer in another one when John and Ginger wave at him in the airport two days after that.

They go on tour and he goes home.

***Ten thousand nine hundred ninety four***

Tim holds the door open, letting Ginger in.

Well, first he questions him on the presence of protein filaments on his face. Then he lets Ginger, who has indeed shaved his fucking beard off in the airport, inside the house with a dark room and a pagan temple.

"Kitchen," Tim says, taking away the bag that Ginger holds in his hand.

"Bathroom," Tim says, nudging the stuffed squid off the chair.

"Fuckparadise," Tim says, pushing the washed and dried squid through the door. "I'll be right there."

"For contemplation," Tim explains, when Ginger asks why the mirror on wheels is standing in the bedroom.

Tim brushes his wet hair, both of them standing in front of the mirror that is standing in the bedroom, sharing a cigarette, Tim behind Ginger, breathing into his ear.

"Want us to look at you, okay?" Tim asks a bit later, putting his chin on Ginger's shoulder and meeting his gaze in the mirror.

"Okay," Ginger says. "Of course."

Tim purrs. Tim lifts his hands and runs them over Ginger's body, over his face, his neck, his chest, his thighs, remembering, repeating, reinventing the shapes underneath his palms.

"Come on, help me a bit here," Tim says, taking Ginger's hands in his own and placing them on his pale skin.

Tim watches the four extremities moving in tandem, mapping the foreign territory, exploring the landscape, gliding over the outer tissue, and Ginger presses into his chest with his back, and Ginger heats up, and Ginger melts, and Ginger moans, and Ginger breathes out his name.

"Wait a second," Tim says, taking several steps to the side and grabbing the lube off the nightstand.

Tim pushes his fingers inside Ginger and pours lube on his palm as well, Ginger wrapping it around his own cock and moving it slowly, moving his hips slowly as well, pushing himself on Tim's fingers, two discordant rhythms intermixing with the melody he generates with his vocal cords, intermixing with the hum of the sand storm in the desert of Tim's mouth.

"Pull your cheeks open," Tim says, pressing his hand on Ginger's lower back, collecting the sweat off his skin. "Want you to fuck yourself on me, okay?"

Ginger vocalizes his agreement and bends slightly, his hands with white fingers on his butt, his legs trembling.

"Don't worry, you're not gonna fall," Tim whispers, thrusting inside him, his hand sliding down Ginger's spine, his palm tracing the vertebrae.

Ginger rocks his hips, pushing back to meet his cock, wavering and unsteady, and Tim stands there, meeting him, looking at the irregular bones forming his spinal column, touching every and each one of them, touching them one by one, feeling the waves of tender vibration emanating from under his fingers, waves rippling the surface, Ginger's breath ragged and not alone in escaping his lips.

"Tim," Ginger whispers. "Oh fuck, Tim."

"Want you to come like this," Tim says. "Will you? Tell me, will you?"

"Tim, I..." Ginger starts. "I... God."

"I'll help you, alright?" Tim says, digging his fingers into his backbone. "I'll be touching you like this. Is that enough?"

"Oh my God," Ginger says. "Tim, I..."

"I can help you some more, if it's not," Tim says, rubbing his thumb into the curved axis of his back. "I can hurt you. Or will you come like this?"

"I..." Ginger breathes out. "I will. I... Tim."

"Come on," Tim says, straining his legs, standing there, a heavy metal object full of vile things roaring underneath the shell. "Fuck yourself on me. Want you to come."

"I'm..." Ginger stutters, and his hips stutter as well. "Fuck, Tim. I... I am."

"Yeah," Tim says, feeling his hole pulsing around his cock and gritting his teeth. "Do it. Give it to us, Ginger."

The spell Tim uses turns out to be the right one. Ginger comes, his hips jerking back and forth awkwardly, vile things that've been roaring underneath the shell now roaming in the air around them, Tim clenching his fist, pressing his palm into Ginger's back, bones touching bones.

"I'll lick you now," Tim says, pulling out slowly and placing his own hands over Ginger's. "I'll lick you for a bit and then I'll fuck you till I come, alright?"

"Yes," Ginger says, his voice almost entirely concealed by the hum of the vile things that've found freedom and circle around them.

Tim drops on his knees and licks into him, dragging his tongue over his hole, gripping Ginger's hands pulling his cheeks open, pressing his face into him, recognizing his taste.

Tim stands up and yanks Ginger's head up by his hair, pushing inside him again, moving his own hips now, holding Ginger in place, not letting him waver, not allowing the earthquake to hit, not allowing the land to run away, the terrible heavy metal object meeting with the ground, Tim himself coming inside Ginger, finding freedom, achieving velocity, breaking through the atmosphere, pulling Ginger's shaking body up and hugging him, wrapping his arms around him, welcoming him.

"I've missed you so much," Ginger whispers, his voice unsteady. "God, I've missed you so much, Tim."

"I'm right here, Ginger," Tim says. "You're right here as well."

Tim holds Ginger in his radioactive embrace after they share a cigarette lying on the bed the contemplative reflective surface stands next to.

Tim holds Ginger until he falls asleep and then until he wakes up.

Tim holds Ginger through the night.

Tim holds John's beautiful face in his hands while Ginger holds his hips and fucks him from behind the next day.

Tim holds John's beautiful face he missed so much until Ginger comes and then until John comes as well.

Ginger holds Tim's hand, squeezing it tight, and Tim's chin, kissing him on the mouth, while Tim comes in John's, his metal shell fracturing once again, the deadly particles leaking out through the cracks.

Tim spends his days with the stupid moaning bastards, listening to John's oral sex stories and making jokes about hair follicles, John sticking his tongue out at him and giving him middle fingers just like he was while performing cunnilingus on multiple ladies who got impressed by his guitar jerking skills, pulling the same stories out of Ginger and making him blush, John giggling obnoxiously and looking at Ginger with the same excited expression he wears while impressing the ladies, Tim sharing similar narratives with them, compensating for the lack of foreign lands exotics with the sheer number of escapades, making suggestions and giving advice nobody asked for and being an insufferable arrogant asshole.

Tim spends his days with the stupid moaning bastards, choking on their syrup, obediently following them everywhere they want to go, being their suffering entertainer, getting dragged into places he's never considered even passing by and wondering how such establishments are even allowed to exist on the face of the Earth, lending his fingers to John on several occasions, letting him drag them across the strings, letting him play his tunes with them, letting him convince him to do the same on his own, letting him humiliate himself with a happy sneer on his face, John again giggling in the only way he knows how to, Ginger looking at both of them with his eyes full of the only emotion he is capable of, Tim lending his fingers to him as well, touching his with them, letting them twitch and curl in the warm pool of milk of his pockets.

Tim spends his days with the stupid moaning bastards, allowing them to make a mess in the kitchen of the house with a dark room and a pagan temple, making suggestions that are not followed, giving much needed advice that is ignored as well and being a laughing cooking school blond scum teacher, gorging on the ugly cake Ginger and John produce with them, deciding to offend it rather than their feelings, wrapping their stuffed bodies in blankets and lying down next to them, listening to Ginger read a certain philosophical novel by a certain Irish playwright out loud, listening to Ginger read it to John and filling the room with smoke, propped on one elbow and playing with Ginger's hair, helping him fuck up his lungs as well, sticking cigarettes in his mouth, while John asks them what this or that turn of phrase even means, watching them throw the book on the floor and kiss, abandoning the gothic literature in favour of sugary sixty nining that is only possible thanks to Tim's accommodating blanket removing behaviour, and letting them look at himself afterwards, amusing them by causing horrible pain to every part of his body John asks him to hurt and then to every part of his body Ginger begs him not to hurt, grinning and coming like a thermonuclear motherfucker, a taste of chocolate in his mouth.

Tim spends his days and his nights with stupid moaning bastards, fucking their brains out in all the fucked up ways he can think of, having survived the temporary parting that was ahead of them and is now behind them, eager to get on with all his diabolical plans, premonition stinging his arms with lightnings, begeting vague concepts in his mind, Tim not knowing what to expect, but hoping that magic is going to be involved in whatever is waiting for him around the corner.

Almost a week after the unsteady welcome he provided Ginger with Tim is sitting with him on the couch, the convoluted plot of a movie neither of them is watching unfolding on the screen in front of them, Ginger asking him this and that about the time he spent apart from them, Tim obliging and telling him about the strings he's been pulling and the knobs he's been turning and arguments he's been having with Brian, listing the things he's thrown on the floor and the things he's seen in his dreams and the things he's felt inside his poisonous heart, describing the play he watched with Jules to him and omitting the cunnilingus he performed on her afterwards, because that Ginger already knows everything about, describing the nights out with Alana, talking about all their pool games and all their bowling exercises, omitting other sorts of gymnastics they engaged in, because these are very familiar to Ginger as well, describing the clubs he shaked to the beat and took vomit inducing pills and sucked cock at, offering Ginger to do the math and calculate how many years he'll have to do that to reach a certain four digit number pertaining to John's oral cavity he strives to achieve if he keeps up his current speed, Ginger laughing and trying to push him off the couch and then finally running out of questions after the number of years that match the current age of their universe have passed.

The convoluted plot of the movie comes to its conclusion and Tim turns off the TV, picking up the beer and taking several swigs, finishing the bottle.

Ginger sighs and hugs his knees.

"I..." he starts.

"What?" Tim asks, turning his head towards him.

"I haven't told you something," Ginger says in one go.

"Oh," Tim says, his unlawful interest piqued, an electrical current running over his skin. "Naughty squid. What haven't you told me?"

"About something I did on tour," Ginger says, licking his lips.

Tim chuckles.

"Is it something juicy?" he inquires. "Something that I can hold over you?"

"Fuck you," Ginger says.

"Then again, what can't I hold over you?" Tim continues. "Come on, spill it out. Swim inside my trap."

Ginger sighs again and shifts on the couch.

"Wanna whisper it in my accommodating ear?" Tim asks, smirking.

Ginger nods, accepting the invitation.

Tim laughs out loud, when he is done.

"Fuck, that's it?" he asks. "God, the level of filth has never been so low."

"Fuck off," Ginger says. "It's... It's the first time that I've done it."

Tim chokes on his laughter.

"What?" he asks. "Seriously?"

Ginger nods, accepting his own surrender.

"Wow," Tim says. "With all that I've done to you... Ginj, you had two cocks up there, and you only started touching your hole on your own a month ago? Fuck, you _are_ a virgin."

Ginger squints at him and grabs at the cigarette package, turning his head away.

"Alright," Tim says, deciding to show him some mercy. "Why haven't you done it before?"

"Fuck," Ginger says, taking a drag, Tim thinking maybe it isn't actually mercy he is showing to Ginger right now, maybe it is his teeth that always get in the way again. "Because I didn't want to freak out. And because you yourself touch it all the time. It's not like I am... Not like I am not..."

"It's not like you aren't ruined enough, got it," Tim says, lighting up a cigarette as well. "And there are always John's magical fingers if I am not around, right?"

Ginger urges him to vacate the premises, using language that wouldn't be allowed on air.

"So why did you do it this time?" Tim asks, staying where he was, because it is not like Ginger actually meant it.

"Because I..." Ginger starts. "Because..."

Tim grabs him by his chin and brushes his thumb over his lower lip, anticipating some gore that can fill the rest of the evening.

"Yeah?" he asks, demonstrating Ginger his biological weaponry.

"Because I missed you," Ginger says. "Fuck, Tim. Because I was thinking about you. Fuck. I missed you so much."

Tim smiles and pulls his mouth open.

"Hm," he hums. "That's actually interesting. I think I wanna see that."

"You want me to finger myself for you?" Ginger asks, slurring his words and shifting.

"Yeah, but not now," Tim says, stopping him. "I don't want you to finger yourself for _me_. That's old news. Though I will definitely be watching reruns some other time."

"Okay," Ginger says, his breath tingling Tim's fingertips.

"I want you to finger yourself for _you_," Tim continues. "I want you to do it when you feel like it again. I wanna see _that._"

"Okay," Ginger says again and shivers. "I..."

"I'll keep my heartless hands off you, you know," Tim goes on, touching the insides of Ginger's mouth. "Deny you the suffering. We'll wait for your libido to enter service on its own. Provided we still have that much time left till the grim reaper comes for us."

"Fuck you," Ginger says, letting out a moan along with the phonemes.

"I'll entertain myself some other way," Tim adds, concluding his monologue and pulling his fingers out. "Play make believe with my whiny persecutor. And then you'll show me what you did on tour. Alright? Or do you have any objections?"

"No," Ginger says, shaking his head. "Alright."

"Great," Tim says, tilting his and admiring the cracks on Ginger's face.

Ginger lets him look at himself, shifting on the couch several more times.

"You kinda look like you're dying to tell me something else," Tim says with a smirk.

Ginger bites his lips.

"What is it, Ginj?" Tim asks, placing his hand over his crotch. "What is it you also want to admit to for me?"

Ginger whines.

"I am all ears," Tim says, feeling more like all teeth, palming Ginger's cock.

"I..." Ginger whispers. "I'm..."

"You are my food, is that it?" Tim asks, lowering his voice as well. "You are my overly excited meal."

"I..." Ginger says, shaking with every word he pushes out. "Yes. Tim. Yes. I am."

Tim chuckles.

"Do you need to show your dumb face to the public during these next few days?" he asks, squeezing his hand slightly.

"No," Ginger says.

"Sweet," Tim says, getting up. "Let's wreck it then. Undress and open your mouth for me. I'll fuck it. I'll come down your throat."

Ginger takes his clothes off and Tim does the same and pushes him to sit on the couch again, pressing him into it and holding his head, standing on his knees and pushing his cock inside Ginger's soft warm mouth he opens for him the moment Tim gets into his position, allowing him to fuck his throat raw, allowing him to gag him, to ruin his lips, to thrust into him in the most careless way Tim is capable of, moaning pathetically around him and choking, Tim gripping the back of the couch tight and working his hips, bombarding him in a progressive manner to inflict as much damage as he can, to destroy him all over again, to spit him out and chew on him once more, coming inside his soft warm fucked mouth, comitting a war crime with an honest love confession falling out of his fucked up one.

Tim holds Ginger's face covered in tears and saliva in his heartless hands, running his callous fingers over his successfully ruined lips, smiling his tender shark smile at him, Ginger offering a serving of his flesh to him with his usual affection his wet miserable eyes are full of. Tim swallows it down and briefly kisses his ruined lips and stands up and ruins them some more, slapping Ginger's face covered in tears and saliva and hoping to see blood, hoping to cause bruising that will require lipstick concealment, aspiring to cause harm, pain, helpless orgasms and disasters, Ginger following his instructions and jerking off for him, holding still for him, being his punching bag for him, being his favorite rare steak for him, wailing for him and suffering for him and helplessly coming for him and loving him for all the wrong reasons.

Ginger cannot produce a single sound when they lie in bed later, Tim having finished washing the salt off his face and applying lip balm and cream to the wrecked parts of it and kissing every centimeter of it and helping him drink and smoke and into the bedroom and looking at him, hurt and vulnerable and beautiful. Ginger cannot produce a single sound after all of that, so Tim speaks for him, asking rhetorical questions about the exact aspects of his idiotic affection for Tim, Ginger nodding his agreement every time, Tim knowing all there is to know about him, already having all of him inside his horrible body, feeling his tender tentacles forever getting incinerated by the imploding plutonium in his chest.

***Twenty three***

"Let me see," Tim says, tugging at the rope, his muscles flexing. "Nope, that's too loose. Come on. We can do better than this."

John frowns and readjusts the rope covering Tim's body, Tim tugging at it again after a minute or so and this time feeling much more incapacitated.

"That'll do," he informs John. "Feel free to start with the torture."

John chews his lips for a few seconds and then takes several steps to the side, Tim waiting patiently, standing there on the floor on his knees, expecting to have his mouth stuffed with something very soiled and very sexy, gradually filling with deadly delight.

Instead a cloth is placed over his eyes.

He sneers.

He feels a wet breath on his cock. He feels John's tongue on his cock. He feels John's mouth on his cock.

Some time later he feels like a malfunctioning weapon of mass destruction suffering a laughable glitch in its equipment, turning into a useless metal rod seconds before the explosion, John taking his cock out of his mouth over and over again, not letting him come and moaning obscenely, Tim himself panting and spitting out blood, pissed off beyond belief, furious and shaking, the clattering of his own teeth loud in his ears.

"F-fuck," he says, clenching his fists, denied his release once again. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fucking hell."

John whines softly, even though Tim can only wonder what _he_ has to be frustrated about, and then puts his heavenly cruel hands on Tim's sweaty trembling thighs, and Tim hears some new and extremely shameful sounds produced by his own speech apparatus, the insides of his eyelids changing coloration, blood obscuring his vision.

"Fuck, John, you're fucking awesome," he squeezes out, the stuttering fashion of his utterance only adding to the praise he wholeheartedly directs at his personal tormentor. "Come on. Break me. Make me writhe. Fucking terminate me."

John whines again and moves his hand, his magical fingers rubbing the tip of Tim's repeatedly rejected cock, teasing him, Tim crashing down that very instant, spiraling into the center of the Earth, feeling his puny _insignificant_ body getting crushed by layers of rocks and dirt.

"What, enjoying this, you little bastard?" he hisses, struggling in his ties, trying to get free and lay waste, all his attempts futile, all his efforts in vain. "Like seeing me like this, you bitching shit? Come on. Undo me. Make me beg."

"Shut up," John says, voice full of magnificent fury, digging his fingers into the underside of Tim's cock. "Shut up, you dumb stinky fish."

Tim yelps and shudders, John pinching the skin and pulling at it, pulling at it hard, jolts of pain travelling through Tim's numb sweaty body, raging elementary particles colliding with each other inside his overheating shell.

"Fuck me up," he spits out, baring his shattering teeth. "Whack me. Grind my bones. Throw me into a dumpster. Fuck me up, John."

"Fucking shut up, " John says, letting go of his cock and grabbing his chin. "Stop telling me what to do."

Tim lets out a rumbling laughter.

"Shut me up," he says, shaking his head and wriggling out of John's grip. "Caulk me. Show me what I am here. Show me my place. Show me what you want to do to me."

"Fuck," John says, slapping him across the face and pushing his fist inside his mouth, Tim readily opening his trap wide, choking on John's fingers and growling around them. "I'm gonna stuff your throat. I'm gonna fuck your dirty mouth. I'm gonna fucking destroy you."

Tim fills with bliss when John starts creating the future he is very eager to live through, shoving his cock inside his mouth and gagging him, pulling at his hair and guiding his head, pushing him deeper onto his cock, Tim feeling saliva running down his chin, supressing the urge to vomit and convulsing and tugging at the rope, listening to John calling him names, calling him human garbage, calling him sick scum, calling him worthless junk, spilling down his throat in a minute or so, Tim swallowing him down with a thermonuclear roar, John pulling out abruptly and pushing his head away, as if repelled by him.

"Fuck, you are such a shit," he says. "I should just leave you here."

Tim laughs, sound coming out gritty.

"You can," he asserts. "You can do whatever you please with me, John. I'm just a piece of shark meat here. I'm your fuckfurniture. I am a doormat for you to wipe the filth on."

"Fuck, shut up," John says, and Tim hears him walking out of the room, a massive grin appearing on his enthusiastically fucked face.

Then John comes back, sitting down next to him.

Then Tim feels his hand gripping his leaking cock tight.

Then Tim feels something made of metal touching his skin.

The sound he makes is not one he's ever heard before, but he sure as hell sounds excited. He sounds thrilled. He sounds fucking aflutter.

"Cut it off, John," he says, the fountains of blood escaping his rapturous mouth. "Cut my tiny stinking cock off. Carve into me. Slice me. Make me look at it. Make me scream."

The sound John makes is not one he's ever heard before either, but he sure as hell sounds wrathy. He sounds fearsome. He sounds formidable. He sounds exactly like Tim wants him to sound.

John yanks the cloth off Tim's head and Tim sees his beautiful face distorted by his ugly inner demon. Tim greets him like an old friend and looks down. Tim looks down and sees John's hands capable of celestial punishment holding his cock. Tim looks at John's hands and sees a guitar pick between his fingers.

"Oh, fuck, John," he says, his breath coming out in violent bursts. "Oh, I am so gonna scream for you. I am gonna writhe like an earthworm. I am gonna pray for the grace of death. I am gonna beg you to stop, John."

John shakes, squeezing his cock tighter and trailing the guitar pick over his length, Tim feeling like his eyeballs are going to explode at the sight.

"I am gonna beg you to stop," he continues, determined to cause a sexual catastrophe of some kind, if not the one he's so passionately talking about. "But you won't, John. You won't stop, will you? You'll chop me. You'll cut my cock off. You'll do it slowly. You'll stuff my mouth with it. You'll leave me to rot."

"Fuck," John spits out, his pupils dilated, his face white, all colors stolen by fear and anger. "I fucking will if you don't shut up. You filth. You disgusting monster."

He starts moving his hand, jerking him off, gripping his cock tight, Tim panting and staring at John's guitar pick, feeling very unreasonable and very bloodthirsty and ready to use all means necessary to get what he deserves.

"Fucking do it then, you cock sucking idiot," he says, pressing the red button, John hissing, John's guitar pick digging painfully into his thigh, Tim himself biting his own tongue and coming in John's fist in a heartbeat, John swearing and throwing his weapon away and slapping Tim's injured limb and getting up and wiping his hand on Tim's blissful sneering face, Tim chuckling and opening his mouth, licking at his palm.

"Horny shit," John says, towering over him. "You're just a dumb horny shit."

"Yeah," Tim says, looking up at him. "Why don't you punish me some more for being such an ill-mannered ass?"

"Fuck you," John says, turning around and grabbing the cigarettes and a towel off the nightstand. "Fuck you and your mind games."

Tim laughs, watching him wipe the blood and come off his skin.

"Wanna tell me again how you don't like hurting me, you hypocrite?" he asks, accepting the smoke John shoves between his teeth with radioactive fondness in his chest.

"Fuck off," John says. "You like me hurting you. You like pissing me off. You are a fucking pervert."

"Yeah," Tim says, taking a drag. "And you're so good at it. You're so beautiful when you're angry. We are a match made in heaven, John."

"Fucking shut up already," John says, attempting to untie him.

"Wait, I need to be reprimanded for using foul language to address you," Tim stops him, winking at him. "Leave me like this for now."

"Jesus, is it never enough for you?" John exclaims, covering his eyes with his hand. "Okay. Whatever."

Tim finishes his cigarette and John takes the butt away and leaves him standing on his knees in the middle of the room for a bit more, getting semi-dressed and spending some time in the bathroom, then lying on the bed with his feet up in the air, sucking on a chocolate bar and smirking at Tim, untying him ten minutes later, while Tim attempts to kiss his hands, and dragging the numb shark sausage into bed after that, refusing to rub his back and sticking his tongue out at him.

"Petty sadist," Tim says, chuckling. "Wasn't I humiliated enough today?"

John giggles.

"You said it yourself, I like hurting you," he says, licking his fingers.

Tim snorts.

"You kinda do, yeah," he says.

"No."

"Come on. You do. Why do you keep denying it? I mean, there is nothing wrong with liking to hurt _me_. You do fucking remember what I am, right?"

John makes a face, biting his lips and wrinkling his nose.

"Okay," he says. "Fuck, okay. Maybe I do."

_Maybe_, Tim thinks.

"A little," John goes on. "I like how you look when you are like that. Fucking hot."

"Yeah, writhing has that effect," Tim says. "It's my favorite as well. Nothing beats it."

"Fuck you," John says. "I don't like you trying to provoke me, though. I fucking know you're doing it, you know. I am not dumb. You sick fuck."

Tim smirks and blows the smoke into his face.

"Stop it," John says and slaps his arm. "You bastard. Made me fucking cut you, you shit. Fuck. I don't like it. I don't like cutting people."

"Hm," Tim hums. "Too bad. I was kinda looking forward to repeating it, but deliberately this time."

"No," John says. "I am not fucking cutting you ever again. And stop trying to piss me off, Tim. Stop pushing me into doing things I don't want to do."

"Well," Tim says. "You know, now that you've finally admitted you like torturing me, you can start stopping me yourself. You can make up some rules."

"Yeah, like you would listen to me."

"Of course I would," Tim says, chuckling. "I am here to serve and obey, John. You just have to make me. You just have to prove to me that you are up to it. Use the language of violence to command me. I am a territorial fucking shark, after all."

"Jesus," John says, finishing his last cookie. "You are. Horny territorial shark."

Tim puts out his cigarette.

"Seriously, though," he says, running his palm down John's beautiful naked spine. "Next time we are not doing this ever again just tell me where the line is, you know. Stuff my trap with your underwear if I start objecting. It's kinda not up to me to decide where you feel like stopping. I am famous for failing to make those types of decisions on my own. So..."

"Fuck," John says, sighing. "Okay. And you're gonna stop annoying me, Tim. You unreasonable shit."

"Sure," Tim nods, smiling. "Your word is law, John."

"Shut up," John says, pressing into him. "Shut up and hug me already."

"Anything you want," Tim says, following the order willingly.

***Zero***

Ginger shifts under the blankets, the plasma of his body engulfing Tim, a certain rather solid part of it pressing into Tim's thigh, Tim grabbing at his package and lighting up a cigarette instead of grabbing at Ginger's cock, doing it grudgingly, with a supreme goal in mind.

He stares at the ceiling, puffing out the smoke, letting Ginger squirm next to him, enjoying the heat he radiates caressing his skin, not moving a single digit.

"Tim," Ginger whispers after a few minutes.

"Yeah?" Tim asks, turning his head to look at his pale wrinkled face. "What?"

"I..." Ginger starts, licking his lips. "I wanna jerk off."

"Do you mean you're gonna finger yourself like you did on tour?" Tim asks, putting out his cigarette. "Or is this another occasion?"

"I..." Ginger says again. "Yeah. I guess. I don't know yet. Maybe."

"Alright," Tim says, sitting up. "Do you need anything? Oh, and tell me where I should fuck off to. I don't want you to get masochistically inspired because I am staring at you. That's gonna skew the results."

Ginger informs him he needs lube and to take a leak first and adds that it is probably going to be alright if Tim sits in the chair a few meters away from the bed. Then Ginger goes to take a leak and Tim does the same and both of them pour some liquids in their dry morning mouths. Then Tim gives Ginger the lube and pulls up a chair and sits in it backwards, ready to observe Ginger's second attempt at anal masturbation, lighting up a cigarette, because Ginger said it's going to be alright as well, because it is not like he doesn't make rooms and houses all stinky himself.

Ginger leans against the back of the bed, a pillow tucked behind his back, and closes his eyes, Tim chuckling inwardly at that. Ginger just lies like that for a while, breathing slowly, his morning erection gradually getting restored, Tim chuckling silently again, running his tongue over his teeth. Ginger starts touching himself, moving his hand uncertainly, in a fashion that is familiar to Tim and also new at the same time, lifting his other hand and pushing his hair away from his face and letting it fall down on the sheets again, letting it be useless, Tim biting his lips to avoid giving advice, feeling a bit annoyed at such blatant neglect of other delightfully sensitive body parts, but hoping things are going to heat up soon, turning his attention to Ginger's awesome cock the virtuous squid keeps polishing.

Tim is awarded with some sound production for such patience, Ginger parting his lips and exhaling audibly, Tim smiling, Ginger's useless hand suddenly flying up and landing on his thigh, looking scared, Ginger running his fingers over his skin, Tim wondering what is happening in his dumb fucked up head right now, deciding to postpone this interrogation for later, keeping his trap shut, feeling his teeth starting to itch.

Ginger shivers several times and removes his hand from his cock, staying still for a moment and then searching for lube without looking. He opens the bottle awkwardly with one hand, the other one still chilling out on his thigh, as if he's steadying himself with it, and pours some on his palm, wrapping it around his cock and producing his first moan.

Tim swallows hard, tasting blood on his tongue, looking at the smooth motions of Ginger's lubricated tentacle and rhythmic movements of his hips, the countdown in his chest reaching zero, Tim exercising his will power, practicing abstinence. Ginger stops abruptly after some time, taking several deep breaths, and then picks up the lube again, smearing his lazy hand in it as well and dropping it down, tentatively rubbing at his hole. Tim grits his itching teeth, watching him push the first finger in, slowly and gently, his facial muscles going tense for a moment and then relaxing, his mouth falling agape, Tim's mouth in an urgent need of sustenance, Tim's unoccupied hands strained on the back of the chair, Tim himself wondering if he is going to preserve his eyesight, because by that time Ginger is already pushing the finger in and out, moving it to a tune that is playing in his head, to a tune Tim is sure he's never heard before, even though it is obscured from him at the moment, moving in a fashion that looks wonderfully explorative, in a fashion that seems independent of his prior fingering practice instigated and governed by Tim. Ginger moans, arching slightly, and grabs at the bottle again, adding more lube and adding the second finger, his head lolling to the side, Tim's head reaching boiling point, Tim feeling as if he's just discovered a completely new dish in his favorite restaurant he's been frequenting for years, feeling greedy and hungry and impatient, developing a craving and forcing himself to refrain from satisfying it right away, looking at Ginger's flexing muscles and sweaty skin and involuntary twitching and quivering lips, watching him fuck himself, looking relaxed, looking peaceful, looking entirely absorbed in his own sensations and in himself, looking beautiful.

Tim puts out his cigarette and gets up quietly, creeping closer, Ginger's delicate lament he is constantly generating now adding to his stealth and ensuring his success. Tim towers over the bed, clenching his fists and supressing the urge to take, to cull, to devour, watching Ginger fullfill his own timid desires and feeling like pure desire himself, watching Ginger push the third finger in and wrap his hand around his cock and pleasure himself, watching Ginger enjoy his own body like Tim's been enjoying it for such a long time, watching him come, clenching and jerking his hips up and arching his neck, watching him come shameless and undisturbed and on his own terms, thinking of an unexpected, but possible future, thinking of his lacking premonition talents, thinking of giving things, growing things, creating things, thinking of nothing and just shaking on unsteady legs, a nuclear warhead suspended in thin air seconds before the impact.

Ginger comes, clenching and jerking his hips up and arching his neck, his throat and his gratification and his erratic essence exposed and presented to Tim.

Ginger comes, and then both of his hands fall on the mattress.

Ginger comes and just lies there for some seconds, trying to catch his breath and jellifying gradually and basking in the ocean.

"Tim," he whispers, gulping. "Are you there?"

"I am," Tim answers right away, shocked by the rapacious tone of his own voice and shocking Ginger as well.

Ginger shivers and opens his eyes and shivers again, Tim feeling his bloodthirsty teeth overtaking his no doubt haunted snout.

"Tim," Ginger gasps out.

Tim snarls.

"I want you," he says. "I want you _now._"

"Okay," Ginger nods and slides down slowly, lifting his hands off the bed and hooking his arms under his knees, opening up to be crushed by Tim's jaws. "Of course."

"Fuck," Tim spits out and spits in his palm, smearing his cock in saliva and falling on top of Ginger, pushing inside him, thrusting into him, the terrible missile plowing the ground.

"Fuck, Ginger," Tim says and takes his pale fearful face in his heartless hands, holding him and fucking him and looking at him and coming inside him and exhaling the phonemes signifying his terrible affection into his mouth and eating him all over again.

"What do I think of when I do it?" Tim asks several weeks later, taking a drag, lying there in bed with Ginger, playing with his hair and running his palm over his spine, having just witnessed his fifth attempt at anal masturbation, this time carried out with the help of the glass dildo Tim happily located for him, having watched him try fingering himself slowly and fast, gently and rough, moving the hips and moving the fingers, jerking off at the same time and deliberately avoiding touching his cock, having seen him ride the dildo and fuck himself on all fours and with his feet up in the air, having learned that he prefers to do it slowly and gently and to be on his back and to touch himself at the same time, having heard him saying that he thought of John's magical fingers giving pleasure to him and John's affectionate face before him and of Tim's cruel fingers causing pain to him and Tim's ugly snout above him and of John fucking him without Tim present for the first time and of Tim making him stumble on himself for the first time and of their handover workout that Tim immediately offers to repeat, having seen him blush furiously, admitting in a broken voice that during his first attempt at anal masturbation he thought of Tim fucking him on the blankets in the middle of nowhere and in the middle of the night, hurting him in the process and hurting him even more afterwards, making him do disgusting things and damaging him forever, having seen him gulp, adding that during his second attempt at anal masturbation he thought of Tim fucking him up on his couch, making him say things he's been hiding from him and locking up deep inside himself, hurting him in the process and saying he likes doing just that afterwards, making him confess things and holding them over him, all of that with substantially more kissing than Tim remembers occuring on those occasions, having watched him orgasm on cock not for Tim's entertainment, but entirely for himself, shameless and undistrubed and on his own terms, having noticed things being accepted, being grown and being created, having said that this belated sexual exploration project is going to be their main one in the foreseeable future, having stated it will have a form of an honest and fair exchange, citing camaraderie and support as two primary reasons, having agreed to answer Ginger's questions as well and having listened to Ginger direct his first one at him.

"What do I think of when I do it?" Tim asks, taking a drag. "Hm. Weird stuff? Body parts? Morally dubious arrangements of mine? Something like that."

Ginger laughs softly and pokes him with the glass dildo he came on for himself and then sucked his own filth off for Tim, asking for a more detailed answer.

Tim chuckles as well and dodges the thing and then passes him the beer they are washing their dirty meal down with.

"Okay," he says. "Let me think."

Ginger nods and waits, Tim collecting his thoughts and puffing out the smoke.

"Well, I obviously think about you guys too," he starts after twenty seconds or so. "Like, I definitely thought about your cocks in my repulsive hole and about riding you and slapping your dumb face and about riding John and slapping his pretty one and about fisting you two gave me and also about fisting I want you two to give me simultaneously, though this last idea will probably stay only a phantasy of mine."

"Probably?" Ginger asks quietly, and Tim grins.

"What else was there?" he continues, voice pensive. "Sometimes I think about the stuff that would earn me multiple life sentences that I want to do to you, and sometimes I think about the stuff that I want John to do to me that would earn him multiple cover stories, and sometimes I think about stuff that I've already done to you and that I've already got off John."

"Jesus," Ginger says quietly, and Tim sneers.

"I also think about other people," he goes on. "Like, if we're talking about anal masturbation specifically, I have this old scenario I kinda use a lot, where I get gangbanged by a Norwegian boyband, which is delightfully offensive on so many levels. Or another one where I get gangbanged by a group of strap-on wearing ladies who are also all into face sitting, if I am tilting into pussy that week."

"Fucking hell," Ginger says, putting his face in his hands and missing Tim's reaction.

"Or if you want more recent ones," Tim offers, feeling a burning sensation in his cheeks. "I sometimes imagine being a fuckhole for a team of Spanish inquisition guys led by a mutual acquaintance of ours whose name I am not gonna tell you, because you're so gonna dump me, even though me jerking off about that is entirely your fault. And that alien monster stuffing every orifice in my body with tentacles I also sometimes imagine is on you too, by the way."

Ginger groans like a dying alien monster with tentacles, and Tim trails his hand over his spine.

"And sometimes I just think about your cock," he adds. "Well, actually, I think about your cock every time. Like, all the cocks I imagine apart from John's kinda look like yours, to be honest. I fucking worship that goddamn trunk of yours, you know."

Ginger laughs, shaking on the bed, for fourteen billion years.

"And if I am not in the mood for any of that," Tim concludes his speech once Ginger is capable of listening again. "I just torture my cock and look at my own suffering and think how hot I am and how tight I'm gonna be clenching around whatever it is in my repugnant ass at the moment."

He smirks. Ginger grabs at the cigarette package and Tim lights up a smoke for him.

"So did I answer your question?" he inquires, tilting his head and looking at Ginger's Mona Lisa face.

"Yeah," Ginger says. "Thank you."

Tim scoffs.

"I..." Ginger speaks again. "I'd love to see you do it."

"What?" Tim asks, feeling a bit confused. "You want to see me fuck my hole while I jerk off?"

Ginger nods.

"You kinda did already many times," Tim says. "I mean, it's a fifth time for you and like a five thousandth time for me. And I do it the same way when I am alone and when there is a crowd applauding my performance. You bottle the sexy stuff up and don't even show it to yourself. I utterly enjoy my degeneracy and readily demonstate the full extent of it to anybody who asks and even to those who never did, as you probably remember."

"Fuck you," Ginger says.

Tim sighs.

"Okay, I'll just do it again," he says. "I mean, I said we were gonna exchange things, so... Just tell me which one you want. Like, what do you want me to get off on?"

"The last one," Ginger says.

"You want me to look at myself?" Tim asks, taking the cigarette away from him and putting it out. "That's like the most boring one."

Ginger just eyes him silently.

"Alright," Tim says. "I'll do it first thing tomorrow after we come home. That works for you?"

"Sure," Ginger says.

"Wanna swap our microscopic friends one more time before we go to sleep?" Tim asks, pulling the blankets up and covering both their bodies.

"Yeah," Ginger says, and Tim puts his own filthy lips on his equally filthy ones.

***One thousand thirteen point twenty five***

"Fuck, it looks dumb," John says, a silly expression on his face.

"Yeah," Tim nods, taking a drag and locking the cage on his cock. "Very demeaning. You don't like it?"

"I am not sure," John says, biting his lip.

"If you don't like it, I can take it off," Tim offers. "I can just do my usual imagining, you know. Think my cock is dissolving and so on."

"But you'd prefer to have it on?"

"Of course," Tim confirms John's speculation. "I was hoping you would have a bit of a laugh at my expense. I do look fucking ridiculous, don't I?"

John giggles, Tim's inner radioactive element responding right away, releasing its destructive energy.

"So like..." John speaks again. "You won't be able to get hard?"

"No," Tim says with a grin, observing John's changing reaction to his latest acquisition. "I mean, there just isn't any room. I do have a miniature cock, of course, but this is pretty limiting even for my teensy seed vessel here."

John laughs out loud, blushing a little.

Tim puffs out the smoke and toys with his ridiculously looking caged cock.

"Isn't it gonna hurt?" John asks some seconds later. "Like, when you're aroused and everything."

"Donno," Tim shrugs. "It might a little, I guess. You know, pressure and stuff. Though I wouldn't worry about it much. I'm gonna be really distracted by that repugnant belt of yours you're gonna be slamming into my hole. This shit here is just to make me feel humbled."

"Fuck, you're so weird," John says, shaking his head.

Tim smirks and puts out his cigarette.

"Come on," he says, urging John to start with their sexual sham. "How do you want me?"

John's pretty face displays the signs of thought process that is still less full of greed than Tim would like it to be.

"How about I lie on my back on the edge of the bed?" Tim says, offering his corrupting help. "You'll be able to really hammer into my disgusting hole. And look at this pathetic stub I have between my legs."

John's pretty face displays the signs of John being an obnoxious spoiled idiot Tim simply loves him for being.

"And I'll look at your fierce angelic visage," Tim adds. "Feel the appropriate reverence and dread towards you."

"Fuck, shut up," John says, getting up and picking up the lube. "Reverence, right."

Tim bares his teeth at him.

"By the way, about that," he says, watching John pouring lube on his fingers.

"What?"

"Shove something in my mouth before you start spanking the shit out of me," Tim says, spreading his legs and hooking his arms under his knees to give John better access. "I am fucking tired of biting my tongue."

John giggles.

"Okay," he says and commences with the torture.

A few minutes later Tim is full of appropriate emotions that are very close to actual dread and reverence he claimed he'd be feeling towards John, John putting his heart and his other, more relevant body parts, into applying his sadistic talents and delivering the torment, John's magical guitar jerking fingers enthusiastically dancing tango inside Tim's hole and John's tongue poking between the rods of the cage and licking Tim's cock that most definitely cannot get erect, Tim himself carefully observing his own undoing, making mental notes for future more advance classes in John's education, putting the remnants of his dumb bloodthirsty mind into separating the realistic ideas from the crazy ones and failing spectacularly at that, panting like a fucking steam engine and clenching his fists and feeling like a shark trapped in a poorly sized aquarium.

"Fuck, John," he gasps out, jerking his hips up, voice coming out tense.

John cups his balls and licks the tip of his cock, squeezing his tongue in between the rods and further inciting Tim by salacious moaning.

"You're so fucking good," Tim spits out, shaking and trying to push onto John's fingers. "Come on, turn me into your plaything. Make me cry."

John slaps his thigh, his beautiful face flushed, and carries on with his unrelenting titillation, Tim holding himself open for him and staring at him and at his own sweaty shivering body completely at his mercy, enchanted and entranced, mouth getting overrun by blood at the sight.

A few more minutes later Tim starts feeling like an actual plaything and sounding like he is really ready to burst into tears, wriggling there on the bed, the rods digging into his cock, John's fingers digging deeper into his hole.

"Fuck, stop, stop," he manages, arching and trying to get away, both from John and from orgasmic waves that keep threatening to overcome him. "I'm gonna fucking come. We don't want that."

John whines and gets up, tracing Tim's persecuted body with his eyes, his pupils blown, his inner obsidian core now clearly visible under the marble shell, wrapping his hand around his cock and stopping his visual exploration abruptly, staring at Tim's mouth with an expression that causes a tingling sensation in Tim's own facial muscles.

"What, wanna ask me if I like your cock?" he inquires, sneering. "I do. I'd also love to play my little finger game with you. I'd love to make mistakes. I'd love to get punished for that."

"Shut up," John says, licking his lips.

Tim laughs.

"Come on, fuck my trap, we'll punch my ugly mug some other time," he says and opens his mouth wide in a toothy, but welcoming gesture.

John is not long in accepting his generous invitation. John stuffs his trap with his cock, Tim sucking it in and moving his head in a fast and sharp rhythm, growling around it and listening to John's sympathetic bellowing, greatly enjoying this duet performance.

John pulls out after some seconds and gets off the bed, swaying a little and looking positively adrenalized, Tim filling up with thermonuclear pride momentarily. John grabs at the belt and Tim grabs at his own ankles again, placing himself on the cutting board, parading a rather sensitive part of his body John's been having his way with fairly recently, driving him mad, pride gradually transforming into gluttony. John pulls his underwear out of the pile of clothes and Tim flaunts his offensive yap that needs to be caulked right away, accepting the gag with a snarl, John pushing the cloth in carelessly, his magical fingers anxious and agitated.

Tim admires his own laughable, discarded cock for a short while, looking at it dangling there on his stomach, hopping on it every time the belt lands between his cheeks, grinning at the idiocy, jerking his hips up himself, jumping at the growing pain. Then the pain reaches adolescence and Tim turns his hungry attention to John, staring at him being his personal angel of death, most definitely feeling dread and reverence, feeling awe and trepidation and suffering gloriously, staring at his shattering face, at the horrible alien thing that lives inside him and doesn't exactly mind making Tim feel awe and trepidation and suffer gloriously, John staring back at him, getting caught in the visual loop. When the pain graduates from college Tim starts finding it really hard just lying there even with the muffled sound production he carries out, matching John's whining with his own. He briefly regrets not being tied up for this, feeling like he is about to lose control over his own body, feeling he is no longer able to force himself to hold himself open for an attack, but then finds a perfect solution, satisfying both his urge to move and his urge to prolong the spectacular anal misery John is so passionately causing him, starting to push into it and not away from it, moving his hips to meet the belt and growling around John's underwear that is soaked in his saliva, floating in irradiated blood in his mouth. His solution turns out to be so perfect, that a few seconds later Tim understands he cannot quite see John's beautiful fracturing face anymore, his eyes going all blurry and wet, tears running down his blissful snout, and he cannot hear John's reciprocal whining either, his growling that is gradually turning into outright screaming filling his ears, if not the air, Tim himself rapidly becoming mincemeat, staring at John's menacing figure grinding him with the belt and feeling ecstatic in his agony, getting what he had coming and being delighted about it.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," John stutters in an angry voice, slapping him one last time and throwing away the belt, shaking, and not only because of Tim's unsteady vision.

Tim attempts to complete his utterance, to add the pronoun to the verb, to form the imperative and urge him to finish the act and also finish him, failing magnificently, John's underwear blocking the units of speech, Tim feeling somewhat frustrated for a second there, longing for more anal wrecking, but then their shared voodoo kicks in, and John grabs at the lube and smears his cock in it and crashes down on top of Tim, slamming inside him with a full body shudder and more furious swearing, Tim screeching again, hoping he sounds inspirational enough, hoping to instigate further undoing, deadly, burning radioactive gas roaring inside his chest, John roaring into his ear, fucking into him, thrusting into him, hammering into him, using Tim's accommodating position on the edge of the bed to his own advantage, moaning with his mouth full of Tim's poisonous flesh, deep and low, and ruining him, coming boiling hot and getting ruined himself, falling in Tim's welcoming embrace, beaten and battered just like Tim is, Tim hugging him in a way that only one monster can hug another, sneering inwardly, feeling proud, feeling rapturous, feeling _multiplied._

Tim spends several minutes chilling out on the bed like a victim of a satanic ritual, staring at the ceiling and listening to John wandering around the house after their bloody bonding exercise is over. He drinks the water John brings him and accepts the cigarette he shoves in his mouth and then yelps pathetically, almost dropping it, when John's fingers covered in cream touch his minced hole.

John frowns.

"What?" Tim asks, propping himself on his elbows.

John chews on his lips, continuing with his treatment.

"How many times did I slap you?" he asks after some seconds, lifting his head.

"How the fuck would I know?" Tim says, puffing out the smoke and letting his legs fall on the mattress again. "I don't fucking count. It kills the mood."

"Fuck," John says. "I think we should count. Your fucking hole looks... I don't fucking like how it looks, okay?"

"Hm," Tim hums. "You think you've overdone it?"

"Yeah," John says, voice coming out with a twang.

"You haven't, but okay," Tim says. "You wanna count? Let's count."

"Yeah?" John asks.

"Sure," Tim nods. "I told you, you are the boss around here. Grab the belt. Let's run some tests."

John picks up the belt again and Tim puts out his cigarette.

"Okay, slap my inner thigh," he says, pointing at the experimental area. "Slap it like you did my bottomless cavern. And count. Just not out loud. I still wanna preserve the illusion of uncontrollale rage I am getting off on."

"Fuck you," John says.

"Come on," Tim says. "Slap me and stop when you feel like you want to."

John eyes him for a few more seconds and then starts slapping his inner thigh, Tim biting his lips, then hissing, then swearing, air escaping his mouth in loud bursts. Then he yelps like a fucking puppy and does it again and again, and then John stops, looking at his face.

"That's it?" Tim asks.

"Yeah," John says. "I mean, it hurts more when I slap your hole, right?"

"Sure," Tim shrugs. "This fucking barking probably would've been low-key screaming, if this was my ass."

"Fuck," John says, shivering. "I don't want you screaming."

Tim scoffs.

"Not even a little?" he asks. "I love screaming."

"Fuck you," John says and then sighs. "Okay, a little screaming is alright."

Tim chuckles.

"So you got the number, right?" he asks.

John nods.

"Add... Add ten to it," Tim says, grabbing at the cigarette package. "For me. We'll see how it goes the next time. We'll downgrade it a bit, if you feel like it. Deal?"

"Yeah," John says.

Tim lights up a cigarette and watches John go about his business, letting him finish soothing his burning skin with pharmaceuticals, letting him gorge on his dumb cookies and leave breadcrumbs on the sheets, letting him wrap his arms around him.

Letting him touch the bars his neglected cock is still leaking behind, allowing this action with much more animation than his previous ones and chuckling.

"What, changed your mind about it?" he asks.

John runs a finger over his balls, and Tim shivers.

"Are you still aroused?"

Tim snorts.

"Yeah?" he says. "And if you keep this shit up, I'm gonna start writhing again in no time."

John giggles and keeps that shit up.

Tim hisses.

John giggles again and upgrades the shit, bending and licking at his cock, poking his tongue between the rods, his breath hot and wet on Tim's skin.

Tim starts writhing in no time.

"F-fuck," he says, shuddering. "You filthy bastard."

John lifts his head and licks his lips.

"It's hot," he says.

Tim bares his teeth at him.

"Want me to suck you off?" John offers.

"Nah, don't spoil my suffering with all that orgasming," Tim says, smirking at him. "I don't deserve to come. I am a fucking asshole."

John sticks his tongue out at him and then toys with his undeserving cock for a while longer, causing more of the writhing.

"Hey," Tim says, returning to bed after taking a leak, throwing the cock cage on the mattress. "I've got a brilliant idea about how else we can use this thing. Since you liked it so much."

"What idea?" John says, stuffing his mouth with sweets, no doubt compensating for the lack of Tim's junk in it.

Tim lights up a cigarette.

"I can wear it when we go dancing," he says, taking a drag. "Be at your mercy for hours, you know."

John frowns.

"Can you do it for such a long time?"

"Yeah, sure," Tim says. "I mean, I won't do it forever. I still need my stick to be available for other types of fun. I have a whole squid who really likes licking his chocolate off it waiting for me at home."

"Fuck you," John says, jabbing him with his fingers.

Tim chuckles.

"Anyway, yeah, it is alright if I wear it for a couple of hours," he says, puffing out the smoke. "You can fuck me up and I won't even be able to get stiff. Cool, right? What do you think? Exciting enough for you?"

John chews on his lips.

"Okay," he says. "But you'll come in my mouth afterwards."

"Jesus," Tim says, smirking. "Your fucking craving for my protein has me concerned, John. Are you a jizz vampire or something?"

"Fuck off," John says, throwing a wrapper at him. "I like you coming. I only do this weird stuff because you ask me to."

Tim laughs out loud.

"Well, thank you for being so selfless," he says, putting out his cigarette. "Come here. I'll be a pillow for you. For all the sacrifices you've made."

***Fifteen point nine nine nine***

"Tim," Ginger whispers, stopping abruptly, hands falling on the mattress.

Tim jumps a little upon hearing his voice, shifting in his chair, and doesn't respond right away, not sure what this sudden acknowlegement of his presence means.

"Tim," Ginger says again, louder this time.

"Yeah?" Tim asks, producing the units of speech grudgingly, unwilling to break this sexual exploration mirage they've been fabricating for the past weeks, reluctant to disrupt the tender magic with his ever-present hunger that never fails to turn Ginger into compliant squid goo, inclined to fast for a little while longer and behold the things that have been accepted, that have grown, that have been created once again.

"Can you..." Ginger starts uncertainly, biting his lips, his eyes shut tight, his body somewhat tense. "Can you give me something?"

"Yeah," Tim says, getting up. "What do you want?"

Ginger just breathes for a few seconds, his fingers twitching.

"Can you give me the clamps?" he hurries out in one go.

"Sure," Tim says, desperately trying to make his voice sound neutral, suppressing the toothy grin, not letting the poisonous blood out of his mouth.

He digs out the clamps and approaches the bed.

"Here," he says, dropping them right next to Ginger's nervous hand. "And relax. I'll be in the chair, alright?"

Ginger nods, and Tim returns to the chair, lighting up a cigarette and waiting for the Fata Morgana to appear again.

Ginger grabs at the clamps and fumbles with them for a few seconds, then abandons them altogether with a sigh and just lies there, as if meditating, the tension gradually leaving his body. He shivers several times and wraps his hand around his cock again, starting to move it slowly. Tim takes a drag and grips the back of the chair tighter. Ginger's other hand doesn't stay motionless for long either; Ginger spreads his legs wider and begins to push the dildo in and out, push it to that tune that Tim deliberately avoids getting access to, to the tune that belongs to Ginger in its entirety.

Ginger's facial expression undergoes a now familiar change as well, and soon the optical phenomenon is back in full force, Ginger getting absorbed in his own pleasure, however chaste it might be according to Tim's standards, and Tim getting absorbed in Ginger, delaying the destruction once again, convincing himself that his standards are extrinsic right now, the supreme goal he most definitely has in mind being his overriding priority.

Tim's stoisicm is gratified after a minute. Ginger lets go of the dildo and lets go of his cock and again just breathes for a few seconds. Then he lifts one of his jittery sweaty hands and picks up the clamps. That is followed by another period of motionless gas exchange, Tim staring at Ginger intently, not taking a single breath himself, using his imaginary gills instead, laying low, waiting, hunting, anticipating. Then Ginger shivers, licks his lips and slowly puts the clamps on his nipples. Then he moans.

Tim gathers all the will power he's been diligently training by engaging, or rather by declining to engage in various delectable and very inviting activities during this runaway process of a period of his life and stays where he was, sitting on the chair and straining his hand on the back of it, gripping it tight and taking deep drags, watching something he didn't even think he could see, something he didn't think even was there to be observed, something he isn't sure he should be allowed to watch, something personal and intimate and private, something that somehow escaped his teeth, even though Ginger's body and Ginger's mind and Ginger's essence are forever trapped inside his toxic, radioactive chest, and this he is absolutely sure about, watching it with thermonuclear fondness and thermonuclear hunger, full of imploding plutonium and of his frightening nightmarish affection.

Tim sits in the chair, gripping the back of it, taking deep drags, and watches Ginger squirming on the bed, sweaty and shameless and undistrubed, watches him touching himself in a familiar and unfamiliar fashion, watches him try things, doing it gently when before Tim forced him to do it rough, doing it calmly when before he was embarrassed of them, watches him push the dildo in and out and pull at the chain and moan with an open mouth, watches him push the dildo in and out and pull at his cock and moan with an open mouth, watches him pull at the chain and pull at his cock and moan with an open mouth, noticing his hands getting confused and awkward and wondering if something's wrong, realizing after a second or two that nothing is wrong and everything is right, that this giant squid squirming on the bed just doesn't actually have tentacles, but most definitely wishes he did, immediately feeling very inclined to come closer, to creep closer, to jump closer and offer his helping hand in satisfying Ginger's desires they both are somewhat surprised he even had, but stopping himself, gritting his itching teeth and supressing his own desires they both are very well aware he has, forcing himself to let Ginger have his pleasure and not give it to him, to let him have it on his own terms.

Tim sits in the chair, shaking and leaking, leaking physiological fluids and imaginary blood and imaginary radiation, clenching his fists and straining every muscle in his horrible body, burning and disintegrating and breaking into elementary particles. Tim sits in the chair and watches Ginger come, watches him push the dildo in and out and pull at the chain, arching and jerking his hips up and clenching around the dildo and straining every muscle in his sweaty, trembling, wavering body, letting go of the chain and wrapping his confused jittery hand around his cock, spilling in his fist, turning his head to the side, presenting Tim with his dumb feverish face, moaning with a wide open mouth, being the most beautiful, the most ridiculous, the most precious creature Tim's ever seen in his life entirely on his own volition, giving things to Tim without even knowing it.

Tim sits in the chair and Ginger turns into plasma on the bed.

Ginger inhales and exhales oxygen on the bed, while Tim doesn't take a single breath in the chair.

"Tim," Ginger whispers and puts his hand on the mattress in a delectable and very inviting gesture.

Tim gets up and comes closer, creeps closer, jumps closer to him and sits on the bed next to him, covering his hand with his own, holding his confused and awkward and ever-scared fingers with his own unbelievably abstinent ones.

"Are you hungry?" Ginger asks quietly.

"I'm fucking starving," Tim answers honestly.

Ginger swallows hard and opens his eyes, and the sudden wave of heat lands on Tim's haunted bloodthirsty snout along with Ginger's terrified breath.

Tim smiles and squeezes Ginger's fingers in his own.

Ginger shivers.

Tim lifts his hand and frees his stupid feverish face of his hair, tucking it behind his ear, then traces his fingers over his skin, over his temple and his cheek and his chin, and brushes against his lips.

Ginger makes an uncertain noise.

"Are _you_ hungry?" Tim asks, his smile turning into a smirk.

Ginger nods, shivering again, Tim's smirk turning into a grin, Tim's hand falling down, Ginger's mouth falling open, Tim pulling the dildo out and holding it right next to Ginger's lips and pulling his own stiff neglected cock out of his pants and wrapping his heartless hand around it.

Ginger looks up at him, his amenable mouth open.

Ginger looks dumb.

Ginger looks like his food.

"Start licking it," Tim says, gripping his cock tighter and twisting it, staring at Ginger's face and sinking his teeth into his body. "Start licking your shit off it."

Ginger whines and complies, sweeping his tongue over the dildo Tim's pulled out of him and now slowly turns around, making sure that all the surfaces and curvatures of the thing are getting Ginger's hesitant, gasping, moaning attention, dragging it over Ginger's wet lips, collecting saliva, torturing his cock and feeling hot fresh blood running down his throat.

"Get up a bit, you fucking filth," Tim says, and Ginger follows this order of his as well, propping himself on his elbows. "Open your dirty fuckhole wider."

Ginger opens his mouth wider, turning bright red and closing his eyes for a second, and Tim shoves the dildo inside, pushing it in and out just like Ginger was pushing it in and out of his ass a few minutes ago, but not gently at all, fucking Ginger's flustered, self-conscious, whining face with it, greatly enjoying both the taste of the dish and the food presentation, baring his blood covered teeth and squeezing his hand on his cock and joining Ginger in his sound production, though using a very different tuning.

"Fucking jelly," Tim says, taking the dildo out. "Fucking shit eater."

Ginger shudders and Tim chuckles, shoving the dildo in his own mouth and sucking on it, joining Ginger in this activity as well.

"Tasty," Tim says, throwing the dildo away after a few seconds. "No wonder you like it so much. You do like eating your own crap, Ginj, don't you?"

"Yes," Ginger nods, looking pathetic.

Tim's thermonuclear chest purrs.

"That's great to hear," Tim says. "But you're forgetting something. I fed you this favorite delicacy of yours, Ginger. You should be grateful to me. Come on, don't be rude. Thank me for feeding you your own shit."

Ginger shakes.

"Thank you," he whispers, forcing the words out. "Thank you for feeding me my shit."

Tim laughs and pats his cheek.

"Alright, I need to be catered for too," he says, hooking his fingers under the chain connecting the clamps. "I'll hurt your ridiculous nipples and you'll cry, okay? Wanna come while you sob for me."

"Okay," Ginger says, tensing up, bracing himself.

Tim offers him his tender shark smile and pulls at the chain just like Ginger was pulling at it a few minutes ago, but much more ruthlessly, making him cringe, making him cry out, making him sob, making him lie still and take it, breaking him and eating him and beating off to that, coming with a snarl while Ginger sobs for him, coming with a blast and falling on top of Ginger, propelled by the shock wave, pressing into his hot, soft, gooey, welcoming body, wrapping his arms tight around him.

"Fuck, I want you," Tim spits out, shoving his snout in Ginger's hair. "You fucking fodder. Fuck. Never fucking enough."

Ginger shivers underneath him and hugs him, his tender loving tentacles landing on Tim's back.

"Fuck, I am still hungry," Tim says, propping himself on his elbows and taking Ginger's fractured face in his hands. "You and your fucking automanipulation."

He bends his neck and licks the tears off Ginger's fractured face he holds in his hands and devours his lips he's been holding the dildo he pulled out of him next to a few minutes ago and devours his mouth he's been fucking with the dildo he pulled out of him a few minutes after that, and Ginger joins him in his sound production, his fucked up support team.

"Fucking hell," Tim says, pulling away and looking at Ginger's fractured, but deeply loved face. "We'll need to eat squid tomorrow. We'll need to eat fucking squid for the whole week. You shit. You fucking forage."

Ginger laughs softly.

"Okay," he says. "I love you."

Tim says the same and laughs as well, ensuring that their belated sexual exploration project stays an honest and fair if somewhat morally dubious and seriously sick exchange.

"Wanna tell John about this?" Tim asks several weeks later, combing Ginger's hair with his fingers, Ginger's head in his lap.

Well, first some other things happen.

First Tim lies in bed with Ginger, digesting him and wanting more and thinking of the recipes he can use for the squid he's going to be cooking for the next seven days and trying really hard to convince himself it is the squid he'll buy at the store and not the one that is currently lying right next to him that he is going to be cooking.

First Tim lies in bed with Ginger, both of them smoking and sipping Ginger's green fucking tea, Tim running his fingers over Ginger's chest, brushing now and then against his nipples he's hurt to make Ginger sob for him while he was coming, Ginger shivering and sighing and letting him do it and telling him about the things that have been accepted, that have grown, that have been created.

First Tim lies in bed with Ginger and Ginger tells him that this time he thought of Tim again, that he thought of him forcing him to wear clamps he now put on voluntarily and by himself, of him doing it for the first time, making him look at himself and making him kneel and making him cry and making him come like a moron, of him expressing his terrible affection for him afterwards, expressing it without being absolutely clear what it actually entails, hinting at things and making him wonder, making him hopeful, making him scared, making him confused, making him hold his breath for months, of him uttering the words and kissing him for fourteen billion years, Tim thinking that in this case Ginger's temporal assessment of their past osculation seems reasonable enough, chuckling and apologizing for being inaccessible in his declarations and correcting for this misguided behaviour of his right away, sharing the recipes he's been considering and the details of the cooking process he's been contemplating, making Ginger shudder and making Ginger gasp and making Ginger palpably afraid, telling him he loves him and meaning it, telling him he loves him and explaining once again what he actually means by it, telling him he loves him and hurting him, hurting his ridiculous nipples he's just been hurting once more, hurting him and kissing him for fourteen billion years and swallowing his pained, his compliant, his surrendering sobs, being a very cruel and sincere monster.

Then Tim lies in bed with Ginger some more and Ginger tells him what he liked and what he wanted this time, confirming Tim's speculation about lacking tentacles and insufficient number of extremities, blushing and being dumb and being yet again ashamed of himself for no reason whatsoever, Tim scoffing and calling him dumb and telling him to stop with this bullshit immediately and then offering his helping hand, expressing hopes their mirage will not shatter at his obvious presence and his obvious participation, being kind, being generous, being obviously fucking hungry at the same time.

Then Ginger shifts in his arms and grabs at the cigarette package and lights up a smoke and puffs out the smoke and looks nervous and adds that the clamps were a bit too much and that he'd probably prefer to do it with his fingers and that he can try that next time if Tim wants him to and that he wants it himself as well, after Tim scoffs at him again and snatches the cigarette from him, saying that of course _he_ wants him to, that he wants him, period, saying that it doesn't matter now, that it is irrelevant and extrinsic and not a part of their project, remarking that doing it with his fingers not only fails to address the problem of lacking tentacles, but additionally escalates it, offering his helping hand again and patiently waiting for Ginger's reply, wondering how he can even do that, being so obviously fucking hungry.

Then Ginger accepts his helping fucking hand, saying that he'll need to try by himself first and blushing again, Tim putting out the cigarette and pulling the blankets over their bodies and trapping all the incredible heat Ginger generates underneath them.

Then they spend a fucking week eating nothing but squid.

Then Tim gets to sit in the chair backwards again. Tim gets to sit in the chair and watch Ginger touch his own nipples with his fingers, doing it slowly and gently and trying things, doing it for a fucking eternity, doing it as if Tim is not present in the room, avoiding trips to really, really distant and exotic places he's been visiting with Tim, moaning and writhing on the bed and trying to fuck himself on the dildo that is stuck up his ass and failing spectacularly, Tim drowning the room in radioactive blood and filling it with smoke. Tim gets to sit in the chair and watch Ginger's hands become confused and jittery again, become insufficient, betraying Ginger's surprising desire for more, his surprising desire that is still very chaste by Tim's standards, that is nothing compared to Tim's rather obvious one. Tim gets to sit in the chair and watch Ginger writhing on the bed, trying to fuck himself on the dildo and touching his own nipples, doing it till the very last seconds, stopping abruptly and wrapping his hand around his cock in a motion that looks positively urgent and coming in his own fist, sweaty and arching and producing sounds that Tim can barely hear, the hum of the terrible weapon of mass destruction loud in his ears, Tim himself turning into thermonuclear flames that very moment and coming closer, creeping closer, jumping closer, spreading across the room as if propelled by the wind that creates the sandstorm in the desert of his mouth.

Tim gets to sit in the chair and then gets up in a sharp motion that is urgent without any doubt about it and gets on top of Ginger and puts his hand on his throat and chokes him without any warning, staring at him writing on the bed underneath him, absolutely terrified and even more accepting of his possible terrible fate, Tim staring at the frightening, nightmarish affection his wet eyes are full of and beating off to that, crushing Ginger's hand on his cock in his own and being an uncontrollable uncontainable unstable process and a very dumb fish, but luckily coming pretty soon, falling on top of Ginger and holding him and telling him to shut up and breathe and wondering once again if he even should be allowed to breathe himself.

Then they spend fourteen billion years trying to calm down.

Then they lie in bed hugging and having a fucking discussion, and Tim asks Ginger if he wants to stop, both with their project that on the surface didn't seem to be that potentially dangerous and with everything else as well that _is_ dangerous in actuality, and Ginger tells him that of course he doesn't want to stop and that he loves him and that he can do anything he wants with him and fucking cries, the time that equals the age of the universe apparently not being enough for calming him down after being fucking strangled.

They keep lying in bed hugging and having discussions after that as well, Tim feeling guilty and making sure that Ginger understands that he loves him to death, that he loves him so much he wants to kill him, but that he only plans to do that without actually risking his accidental passing, Ginger's disturbing sobbing that breaks the nuclear bomb Tim has for heart turning into possibly even more disturbing laughter, Tim calling him a reckless idiot and kissing his overwhelmed mouth, Ginger opening it again after they part and answering Tim's questions, Tim changing the subject of the conversation, both of them being sufficiently calm, and asking him about the instance of belated sexual exploration that happened before the sudden strangulation disaster, Ginger telling him about the things that have been accepted, that have grown, that have been created despite of everything, adding at the end he was thinking of John this time, because otherwise the really, really distant and exotic places most definitely would've been visited.

Then Tim realizes he is a dead shark, whose days are numbered.

Then Ginger tries convincing him otherwise.

Then Ginger is proven wrong, Tim getting berated by John and placing his neck under his sword again, John being furious, slamming his fists in Tim's horrible body and pointing at the sudden strangulation marks on Ginger's throat, demanding to know what the fuck even happened, calling both the participants sick fucks and reminding them in very impolite terms that it was agreed that everything involving Ginger's illegal breath could only happen as often as singularities do and only with him present, Tim accepting the blame and rejecting the punishment, saying that John, of course, can beat him and throttle him and hurt him in any other way, but that won't help much, because he'll only fucking enjoy it, and enjoyment is not something that should be a part of penalties, Ginger starting to laugh hysterically at that, John promptly following him and Tim joining them as well, fucking euphoric he is still somehow allowed to.

Then Tim spends three days being both John's and Ginger's willing servant, denied engaging in delectable and very inviting activities and engaging in incessant fucking kissing instead, until everything that probably shouldn't be is forgiven.

Then Ginger spends three more days at John's house, as far away as possible from Tim's heartless suffocating hands.

Then Ginger comes back.

Then they commence with their now amended project again.

They commence with their project again, and Tim sits on the bed, trying to be as silent and as insignificant as possible, Ginger's head in his lap, Ginger's body, the main focus of their unscientific research, in front of him, Ginger jerking off and fucking himself with the dildo the way he wants to, as shameless and as undisturbed as he can be given their spatial location, Tim giving him his helping hand, giving him both his hands, touching his nipples for him the way Ginger tells him to, gently and slowly, sitting there stiff and numb as if he is a carcass undergoing the third stage of death, ravenous and incandescent as if he is a ball of deadly radioactive gas that for some reason has jaws, watching Ginger come undone on his own terms, watching Ginger come shaking and boiling hot, moaning with a wide open mouth, deep and low, and staring up at him with unseeing, absolutely black, wide open eyes, presenting him not only with this surprise, but also with a tender blossom of something new on his face, something Tim didn't expect seeing waiting for him around the corner, something Tim didn't quite believe was even possible, something Tim didn't think could be accepted, could be grown, could be created, something that nevertheless was, Tim's wretched, appalling chest filling with things he has no name for, Tim's haunted snout betraying none of it, being completely overtaken by his teeth, Tim himself being completely immersed in the spectacle and consumed by his own desire to consume.

Then, having witnessed this beautiful moment, Tim goes thermonuclear and does his usual horrible, unspeakable, unforgivable things.

Tim hauls Ginger off his lap and pulls the dildo out of him and sucks his filth off it and fucks Ginger on all fours, thrusting carelessly inside him, laying waste with his saturation bombing he knows how to execute really well, pulling his hair, yanking his head up and making him curve his spine, spitting out the units of speech signifying what he wants to do to his impossible vertebrae, getting even more bloodthirsty in the process, pulling GInger up and grabbing his throat and coming inside him while choking him again, though this time, luckily, in more imaginary fashion, which makes the calming down process not as lasting as it was the previous time, that in turn resulting in Ginger's head ending up in his lap, Tim's fingers ending up in his hair, cigarettes ending up in both their mouths, the question ending up being asked.

"Wanna tell John about this?" Tim asks, looking down at Ginger.

Ginger frowns, looking confused.

"I mean about our masturbatory investigation project," Tim clarifies. "This other shit is nothing new."

Ginger laughs softly.

"Okay," he says, taking a drag. "If you want to."

Tim scoffs.

"Fuck," he says, shaking his head. "Ginger. I am asking _you_ if you want to."

Ginger bites his lips.

"I think he'll be really happy to see what we've achieved here," Tim offers him his reasoning. "And he'll display a much more adequate reaction to our amazing results than I do."

Ginger laughs again, pressing into Tim's palm cupping his face.

"Yeah, okay," Ginger says after a few seconds. "I wanna tell him. Just... Just not..."

"Not right now?" Tim asks, tilting his head and smiling at him.

"Yeah," Ginger says, sighing. "I mean, it's a bit too... It's fucking..."

"Intense?"

"Yeah."

"Alright," Tim says, nodding. "We can tell him when you are ready. I'll revel in your timid pleasure on my own for now."

"Thank you," Ginger says.

"God, shut up," Tim says, chuckling. "Fucking idiot. Thank _you._"

***Eight thousand eight hundred forty eight***

John whines.

John whines for days, both in person and on the phone.

John whines in his own house and outside the house and even in the pagan temple room in Tim's house where Tim runs, trying to escape his whining, hoping his terrible ancient gods will have mercy on him.

John whines in the morning and in the evening and probably even in his sleep.

John constantly whines, demanding that all three of them go somewhere and have a short vacation, go somewhere outside of town, somewhere interesting, though he, of course, has no idea where that delightful place might be, because getting brilliant ideas is Tim's department, just like entertaining John is also Tim's responsibility.

At the end Tim decides to oblige and opens the map and points with his finger at a random place on it and finds the nearest national park and says they are gonna go there and drive around it and stumble pathetically around it and camp in there and be filthy in the tent and annoy everybody around them and then ask for forgiveness through culinary voodoo, if cooking is allowed, and unabashed flirting, if it also isn't banned.

Then he has to change his original plan, because the national park he randomly chooses turns out to be a dull and boring one, so they try again, Ginger pointing at the map this time, and then once more, John doing the same with his heavenly fingers, Ginger's choice also being poor. Then he has to amend his plan again, because John says he doesn't want to camp in the fucking awesome park he randomly chooses and doesn't want to annoy anybody or apologize by flirting with them and doesn't want being filthy in the tent and instead wants being filthy in a proper building, in a building where cooking simply must be allowed. So Tim hunts for lodges in or near the fucking awesome national park John randomly chose for them, figuring it is indeed more suitable for being filthy and satisfying every single one of John's numerous desires.

John spends another week whining, while Tim wraps up some stuff, dealing with things he once again promised to deal with to his various friends and acquaintances, because he never fucking learns, and begs a certain asshole with a raspy voice who's been keeping him in the studio for the last month to let him off the leash for a few days.

John finally switches to obnoxious giggling the day before their trip, Tim packing their bags and stuffing them with items that would ensure reaching an appropriately high level of vacation filth, while Ginger groans like a doomed sea animal, still helping him to pack their fucking bags.

Then, when they finally leave the house in the morning, John is back at whining that continues for at least twenty four hours, provoked by Tim fucking things up. His first fuck up occurs on the same day he was packing their bags, Tim feeling tired and thinking he deserves some magic and shoving pills into his mouth to occupy the rest of the evening. He feels even more tired in the morning and suffers in the back seat, half dead and half asleep, while John pouts in the seat next to Ginger, who is again being polite and nice and helpful, sitting behind the wheel and delivering their asses to the national park. John, on the other hand, is being impolite and nasty and fucking irksome during their entire drive, appalled by Tim's dangerous drug addiction and upset by the lack of his attention and insufficient worship, Tim being half dead and half asleep and not much of a servant.

They stop at the diner after a few hours, and luckily by that time Tim is back in the world of the living and the world of the awake. He decides to seize this opportunity to change the tune John's been playing by buying him stuff. And it works, but only for a short period, because then he fucks it all up again.

"By the way," he says, coming back from the bathroom after washing his hands before sitting at the table, following John's request. "Keep forgetting to tell you."

The chewing bastards lift their heads to look at him.

"I'm divorcing Daddy," he says, throwing some fries into his mouth. "We've talked it over. It's gonna be a peaceful separation. He's gonna have custody of the kids, of course. And I'll still have to provide him with some marital anal copulation until we're done with the album, but then I'm gon—"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence, John choking on his milkshake and then berating him, hissing and telling him he'll dump his disgusting ass, if he ever again talks about Brian in such terms, questioning him on every aspect of their relationship like Spanish fucking inquisition, whose troubling and very relevant involvement in Tim's fucked up inner life Tim keeps his mouth shut about, figuring John just might be serious about this being the line he is absolutely not allowed to cross, crossing his nuclear bomb of a heart instead and swearing that his relationship with Brian, who he is absolutely not allowed to fuck or to have naughty thoughts about, is as asexual as it can possibly be, Ginger sitting there silent and blushing instead of Tim, being really well versed in understanding Tim's hinting at things and actually knowing these things, having already questioned him, though in a completely different fashion, on this very topic, and having been much more accepting of Tim's crossing the imaginary fucking lines and Tim's naughty thoughts Tim absolutely does have.

So for the rest of the drive Tim sits in the back seat with John, being his hair brushing and make up applying servant and being jabbed by his magical fingers repeatedly, while Ginger is yet again nice and helpful and supportive in the highest degree and behind the wheel till they get to their lodge.

Then they stumble around the awesome national park, and John stops whining for a few hours, clapping his hands and jumping and pointing at things and being annoying and flirting unabashedly with other visitors and with rangers and even with awesome fucking trees found in abundance in the awesome fucking national park, while Ginger questions Tim on what he is going to do after his divorce proceedings with Brian are dealt with, allowing him to finish his fucking sentence and touching him with his inquisitive fingers, Tim sharing his plans with him, telling him he is thinking about starting a solo project and finally using all the delectable and very inviting activities he got to live through in these last years they spent together as song writing material on his own, Ginger getting somewhat confused by the last three words, Tim readily explaining to him what those bondage references in a certain song a certain asshole with a raspy voice and Ginger himself really loved including in set lists for concerts were based on, Ginger starting to stumble even more than he previously was, blushing once again and covering his face with his hands and calling him a sick motherfucker, Tim grinning like a maniac and telling him to wait until he gets to read the references in the results of Tim's solitary creative process Tim would simply love to have his help in composing beats and bass lines for and sees exactly how sick a motherfucker he really is.

Ginger temporarily dumps his sneering ass after that, stumbling in John's direction, John welcoming him in his feathery embrace and unabashedly flirting with him as well, Tim figuring it might be a good time to unzip his own charisma in case he'll actually become forlorn and forsaken for something he doesn't even think he shouldn't be allowed to do and then doing just that, bonding with some hippies over their shared dangerous drug addiction and doing the said drugs with them, returning to the lodge half dead and half asleep and getting berated by a whining lipstick wearing idiot yet again, but still ending up sleeping in bed and not on the floor where he belongs, Ginger being more accepting of his dangerous drug addiction, not being an entirely sober squid himself, and welcoming him in his stupidly drunk embrace over John's insufferable protests.

Next morning that is actually an early afternoon Tim wakes up to a familiar sensation of something very talented and very cruel and no doubt divine poking a rather sensitive part of his rotting corpse of a body and chuckles.

"Interesting choice," he says, shifting a little and spreading his legs. "I've always thought you were more of a morning fellatio kind of a guy, John."

"Shut up, you trash," John whispers, digging his magical fingers into his hole. "You are not to open your filthy mouth unless I tell you to."

Tim lets out a noise, that is approving of both the action and the accompanying instructions.

"And you are to address me as Daddy," John adds, giggling and pulling at the messy hair on top of his head.

Tim snorts.

"No, that's just wrong, John," he objects, pushing back to meet John's fingers. "You are not Daddy. Maybe... Maybe, Sir or Owner?"

"Shut up, you muck," John says, yanking him up by his hips. "Daddy. You'll call me Daddy."

Tim props himself on his elbows.

"You can't be Daddy, John," he says, shaking his heavy head. "You're like seventeen years old. How about... How about My Lord?"

"Shut up, you litter," John says, smearing Tim's hole in lube. "Your fucking opinion doesn't matter. It's Daddy."

Tim scoffs.

"John, no, that's dumb," he says, putting his ass in the air. "I mean, this dross idea you're working off for my pet name is really cool. But this Daddy thing just doesn't work. Emperor? Your Highness?"

"Fucking shut up," John says, pushing inside him and smacking his ass he puts in the air. "You don't get to decide. I'm your Daddy."

Tim opens his eyes.

"Fucking hell," he says, looking at Ginger lying there next to them, drooling on the fucking pillow. "You stubborn idiot. Fuck. Correction. You stubborn Grand Master. You stubborn Majesty."

"You fucking garbage," John says, thrusting angrily inside him, making the image of Ginger drooling on the fucking pillow shake in front of his eyes. "Daddy. Fuck. You're to call me Daddy. Or I'll fucking destroy your ass."

"Please, do," Tim says, letting out a noise that is approving of the action, but not of the accompanying instructions. "Fuck. And go on with the smacking. But no fucking Daddies, Your Supremity. That's nonsense."

"You worthless junk," John says, going on both with destroying his ass and with smacking and adding some delightful whining to the arrangement. "Shut your dirty mouth. Fuck. It's Daddy or I'll _dump_ your ass."

"What the fuck is happening here?" Ginger asks, slurring his words and lifting his heavy head off the fucking pillow he's been drooling on.

"Our dumb Great One wants me to call him Daddy," Tim says, slurring his words too, looking at Ginger's pale face covered in lines and baring his teeth. "Fuck. Jealous fucking Almighty."

"Who the fuck allowed you to talk?" John says, pushing Tim's heavy head into the pillow. "You human waste. Fuck. You fucking slag."

"Fucking hell," Ginger says, opening his eyes and looking at Tim's sneering snout. "You sick fucks."

"Come on, fuck me up, Perfect One," Tim cheers John on, putting his hands behind his back. "Squid, stop bitching already and give me your damn fingers."

In the next several minutes Tim lives through yet another delectable and very inviting event, the Perfect One pressing hard on his hands he's put behind his back and fucking his disgusting hole, berating him further, performing both the actions in a magnificently furious fashion, proving to be worthy of all the praise Tim directed at him, the squid sticking four of his fingers in his talkative trap and effectively shutting him up and shutting up himself, staring at both his trap and his own fingers in a disturbingly tender and loving fashion, proving to be an emotional moron with a massive boner, Tim himself coming boiling hot and snarling, then letting John come boiling hot and snarling, then riding Ginger and making him come boiling hot and snarling, proving to be a sick motherfucker who snarls a lot and gathering some more song writing material.

In the next several hours Tim cooks in the lodge where cooking is most definitely allowed and earns the Perfect One's complete forgiveness, the Perfect One himself seeing reason and agreeing that this honorific is indeed more appropriate and stumbling around the awesome national park that was a perfect choice of his and pointing at everything with his ideal fingers and clapping his flawless hands and unabashedly flirting with Tim despite Tim being a sick motherfucker with all sorts of naughty thoughts and then with hippies Tim bonded with over his dangerous drug addiction the previous day and smoking their perfectly good weed despite his own insufferable protests and getting splendidly wasted and returning to the lodge half dead and half asleep and full of silly laughter and berating Tim for going through with application of his naughty thoughts to the emotional moron with a massive boner while he was gone and ending up in bed, a pure perfection in Tim and Ginger's shared embrace.

Next evening that is just an ordinary end of the day that was full of activities that are both allowed and prohibited in the awesome national park John pointed at on the map with his divine finger Tim ransacks their bags he's packed and produces one of the items that made Ginger groan like a doomed sea animal and sits in the chair, watching the sixty nining bastards, allowed only observation and prohibited to touch his not so massive and very much _caged_ boner, earning John's forgiveness once again by looking ridiculous and not even snarling, his talkative mouth stuffed with John's dirty underwear, John's talented mouth ending up on his eventually pardoned cock, John performing an impeccable fellatio on him, proving Tim to be mistaken only about his timing, but not about his general disposition, and making him come boiling hot and grateful to his terrible ancient gods who had mercy on him, no doubt highly entertained by all the filth Tim has provided them with, Tim himself provided with even more song writing material.

Next evening that is the end of the day that is very similar to the previous one Tim ransacks their bags once again and provides John with a perfect magnificently slow anal torture experience, following John's request full of filthy enthusiasm and earning himself a convulsing, shattering, delicious virtuoso coming boiling hot and whining unabashedly in his and Ginger's shared embrace.

Next evening after that Tim spends jerking his cock alone, forlorn and forsaken, having been summoned back to the studio by a certain asshole with a raspy voice he in the end decides against fucking as a farewell and having left the bastards he hopes to fuck until that very day he is not half, but fully dead, to be filthy in the awesome national park on their own.

When they come back, Tim greets them with disasters.

***Thirty three to thirty four***

"Ginj, come on, seriously," Tim says, puffing out the smoke. "You are not gonna like it."

The stubborn sea maiden with a dildo up his ass eyes him silently for a few seconds.

Tim sighs.

"Alright, you dumb motherfucker," he says and props himself on one elbow. "Do as you please."

Ginger licks his lips and closes his eyes, just breathing for a while, then wrapping his hand around his cock and putting his other hand behind his back. Tim observes this atmospheric refraction phenomenon, lying there next to him, smoking, spatially close, but currently inconsequential.

Ginger moans, stops for a second, his hand trembling slightly. Then he squeezes his cock, twisting it and pulling at it and still sucking at that. His face wrinkles, and he shivers. Tim smirks. Ginger frowns, returning to the previous stage of his jerking off with an audience process, moaning again, stopping abruptly and repeating the sequence: squeeze, twist, pull, fail.

Ginger inhales sharply, and his cock goes limp.

Tim laughs out loud, shaking on the bed.

"Wow," he says. "Hell must be freezing over."

Ginger exhales sharply and opens his eyes, staring at him like a very confused and somewhat frustrated sixteenth century Italian lady.

"Fuck off," he says.

Tim chuckles again.

"I told you you wouldn't like it," he says, lifting his hand and pushing Ginger's hair off his face. "I mean, I didn't expect this... This impossible absurdity," he gestures at Ginger's unbelievably flaccid cock. "But come on. You don't like pain. Fucking clamps are too much for you, and you thought you would like cock torture?"

"Fuck you," Ginger says. "I... I fucking like it when you do it. And... Fuck. And when you tell me to do it."

"Yeah," Tim says, running a finger over his throat. "But that's not because of the pain. You like it because I fucked you up."

"Jesus," Ginger says, scoffing. "I guess you fucking did. Fuck, I am sick."

"Hey," Tim says, scoffing too. "Stop that. And don't pout. Come here."

Tim sucks Ginger's perplexed face, his hands travelling over his disconcerted body made of plasma.

"Alright," he says, when they part, one of his vagrant extremities reaching its gradually stiffening destination. "Let's help the devil out of that fur coat."

Ginger produces a promising sound.

"Are you..." he starts, shivering. "Are you hungry?"

"Nah, just hard," Tim says, showing him his teeth. "Well, maybe a bit peckish. Fuck, I am always hungry. But whatever. Let's have some undefined sex. Fuck this weird shit."

Ginger laughs softly and pushes in his palm.

Tim pulls the dildo out of him, when Satan is yet again sporting nothing but his sexy strings, and throws it away, deciding to abstain from giving a lift to pathogenic organisms, reassuring Ginger they'll be back at his favorite shit eating in a few days, once they enjoy at least a week of knowing for sure that there are no illegal aliens residing in their bowels, having received the results stating just that the previous day, Ginger blushing furiously and telling him to fuck off and straddling his thighs backwards, Tim laughing at him and declining his impolite offer and making his own rude proposition that Ginger simply cannot refuse, his vocabulary really lacking in matters of saying no to Tim.

Tim sits on the bed, pressed into the back of it, Ginger pressing into him with his back, and replaces the dildo with his own cock, pushing Ginger on it and nudging him to move, wrapping his hand around him, Ginger rocking his hips slowly and moaning, his head falling on Tim's shoulder, Tim's name falling out of his mouth, Tim's mouth getting more and more avid, Tim himself getting fucking ideas.

"So you said you liked it when _I_ hurt your cock, Ginger," he says, squeezing his fingers a little. "Do you want me to do it now?"

"Fuck," Ginger says, shivering, and Tim feels the muscles of his hole clenching tighter around him. "I... Fuck, Tim."

"Come on," Tim says, jerking his hips up and fucking into him and baring his teeth and gnawing on him. "Ask me to hurt you. I won't deny you this pleasure, you know."

"Oh fuck," Ginger says, stuttering in both his speech and his movement. "Okay. I... Fuck. Can you... Can you hurt me?"

"Sure," Tim says, sneering and gripping his cock and pressing and twisting and being very cruel and very good and experienced at that, not sucking at all.

Ginger cries out miserably and starts shaking.

"Enough for you?" Tim asks, lightening his grip for a moment. "Or do you want more?"

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says, voice breaking. "I..."

"You do, don't you?" Tim asks, voice gritty. "Go on. Keep asking me."

"God," Ginger says. "Okay. Fuck. Hurt me again."

Tim chuckles and repeats the sequence, applying more force, drawing a whole string of pathetic sounds out of Ginger's mouth and stuffing his own.

"Good?" he asks, whispering in Ginger's ear. "Enjoying this? Or do you still want more?"

Ginger shudders.

"I think you do," Tim continues, nudging him to keep moving. "I think you want to cry, Ginger. Don't you like crying for me?"

"Fuck," Ginger manages, stumbling on his cock. "I... Yes. I do. Hurt me. Fuck. Oh fuck. I want to cry for you."

"Of course," Tim says, torturing Ginger with his heartless hand once again, prolonging the suffering.

Ginger tears up after several seconds, his wailing becoming more and more continuous, Tim pushing his sweaty body up and down, his other hand on his shoulder, guiding him into his jaws.

"How was that, Ginger?" Tim asks, taking a short break. "I'm not sure. I kinda feel you want even more."

Several tremors go through Ginger's body pressed into Tim, sobs leaving his lips, and Tim chuckles.

"I think you want to howl for me," he says, moving his hand on Ginger's cock and jerking his hips up. "I think you want to come while I torment you. You want to come because I do that to you. Am I right?"

"Tim," Ginger breathes out, shattering in his arms.

"Am I right, Ginger?" Tim asks again, grabbing him by his hair. "You want to tell me you love me while I put you through agony. Tell me you love me _for_ that. Because you are that fucked up."

"Oh my God," Ginger says. "Fuck, Tim. I... Yes."

Tim laughs.

"Alright," he says, his hand on Ginger's cock speeding up. "I'll fucking wreck you now. I'll hurt you and you'll howl for me and you'll clench for me and you'll come for me and you'll serve yourself on a plate for me. How does it sound, Ginger? You only need to ask me, and you'll get all of that."

Ginger starts disintegrating, waves of fear going through his body in hot flashes.

"Tell me you like me hurting you," Tim says, gripping him tighter. "Tell me you like me doing anything I want with you. Tell me you like nothing more."

"I..." Ginger forces out. "I do. I like it. I like you hurting me. Oh fuck. I like you doing anything you want with me. Fuck. Fuck. I like nothing more. Fuck, Tim."

"Yeah," Tim drags, throwing his hips up and squeezing Ginger's cock hard, twisting it and pulling it and hurting Ginger mercilessly. "Come, Ginger. Tell me you love me and come. Get wrecked."

"I love you," Ginger says, howling, convulsing on his cock, convulsing in his jaws, trying to get away and trying to stay where he is forever, his hips stuttering, his hole clenching, his cock pulsing under Tim's excruciating fingers. "God, I love you so much, Tim. I love you."

Ginger comes in two or three beats of Tim's nuclear bomb that is tearing apart his chest, completely helpless in Tim's arms, completely wrecked by his hands, completely ruined by his efforts, completely undone by his brilliant fucking ideas turning real, completely eaten by Tim, and Tim comes after a few more beats, fucking into his body he keeps inside his chest that is torn apart, pushing him up and down, completely careless, utterly cruel, deadly and ruthless and always hungry.

Some time later Tim towers over the bed, a cigarette in his mouth, a wet towel in his hands, and unfolds Ginger's masticated body, bending slightly and pulling his legs apart and wrapping his tortured cock in the towel and listening to his sobbing and shaking his head.

"Fuck, it's fucking crazy," he says gloomily. "I hurt you this much and you still fucking came."

Ginger whines, and his shoulders start shaking.

"God, I fucked you up," Tim says, sitting down on the bed next to him. "I've fucking broken you, haven't I, Ginj?"

"You did," Ginger says, hiding his face in his hands and whispering in a broken voice and wailing quietly. "You fucking did. Tim... You've broken me so much. I... Fuck. I'm fucking nothing, Tim... You've made me into nothing. Fuck, Tim..."

Tim rubs his eyes and grits his teeth.

He puts out his cigarette.

He puts his hand in Ginger's hair, combing it with his fingers.

"I'm..." he starts, then stops abruptly, chuckles and shakes his head again "Fuck. I'm not. I'm not fucking sorry."

"Tim," Ginger says, and Tim falls onto the bed next to him, looking at his shaking hands covering his face and keeping his hand on his temple, caressing his hair.

"I would do it all over again," he says, sighing. "I will do it all over again. I _am_ doing it all over again."

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says, and Tim pulls his shaking hands off his face and puts his own on it, caressing his wet skin.

"I'm not sorry, Ginger," he says, looking him in the eye. "I am guilty, though. I am so fucking guilty."

Ginger gulps and puts his shaking hand on Tim's face, and Tim understands that his skin is wet as well.

"I..." Ginger whispers, biting his lips and caressing Tim's wet face with his wet eyes. "I forgive you."

Tim laughs out loud, shaking under Ginger's tender hand.

"You cannot fucking forgive me, Ginger," he says, smiling a crooked smile. "You never fucking blamed for me anything."

"God, Tim," Ginger says, shaking his head on the pillow under Tim's callous hand.

"But it's okay," Tim says, pulling him closer with his callous hand. "I blame myself. I can blame myself for you too. And there is a whole another idiot who does the forgiving."

Ginger laughs softly, his hot breath drying Tim's wet face.

"Come here," Tim says, kissing Ginger's wet face and swallowing his hot breath.

"Fuck, you are so beautiful," Tim speaks again, when they part, the thermonuclear gas he exhales burning Ginger's feverish face.

"Tim, I..." Ginger opens his dumb mouth as well.

"Shut up," Tim says, pressing his callous hand over it. "You _are_ beautiful. You are perfect. You love me after all I've done to you. You are the sweetest person on this planet. In this fucking universe. You are the most precious creature I've ever seen in my entire life, Ginger."

"Tim, it's..." Ginger mutters under Tim's hand, shaking and shivering Tim knows exactly because of what.

"No, it's not too much," Tim says, removing the hand. "It's not enough."

He takes Ginger's hand in his own and puts it on his wretched chest.

"I got what I wanted, Ginger," he says, pressing on it. "I have what I want. I have it right here. I have _you_ right here. You are fucking inside me. I've fucking eaten you, Ginger."

Ginger wrinkles his dumb face.

"You got nothing," Tim continues. "That's simply wrong. You have to get what you want as well."

"I don—"

"I know you don't fucking want anything," Tim interrupts him. "I know you just want to be in the fucking vicinity of my disgusting ass. But that's also wrong, Ginger. I am a fucking asshole. And you should start wanting more from me."

"Fuck off," Ginger says, caressing his wretched chest. "I love you."

"Yeah, and I love hurting you," Tim says, chuckling. "You and your poor fucking cock."

"It's okay," Ginger says, being fucking stubborn.

"No, it's not," Tim says, being fucking correct. "You deserve much better. Fuck, your cock definitely deserves better. This shit today was really wrong. Criminally fucking wrong."

Ginger smiles a crooked smile at him.

"Your awesome fucking cock deserves veneration, not this shit," Tim says, nodding at the wet towel. "This shit I've done today should be punishable by death."

Ginger laughs.

"I'm gonna worship your fucking cock for a week, okay?" Tim says, propping himself on one elbow. "When it's back in business, of course. I'm just gonna selflessly blow you for a fucking week. Stand on my knees for you every day."

"Tim, I d—"

"Shut up," Tim says, grabbing at the cigarettes. "You and your obligatory fucking reciprocity. Favors are not what you should be returning to me, you know."

He lights up a cigarette and shoves it in Ginger's dumb mouth.

"Thank you," Ginger says, accepting the slow agonizing death as usual.

"Fuck, I sincerely hope you're just thanking me for the fucking smoke, Ginj," Tim says, lighting up another cigarette for himself.

"Fuck off, Tim," Ginger says. "Just fuck off."

***Twenty point ninety five***

John frowns, towering over the bathtub, his pretty face looking concerned.

"No," he says finally.

Tim scoffs.

"Come on," he insists. "What kind of waterboarding is that if I can easily stop it?"

"Safe kind?" John offers, voice coming out with a twang. "I don't want you to be unable to stop it. I don't want you to fucking die here."

"I won't be _unable_ to stop it," Tim smirks. "It's just gonna be a bit harder. I mean, I have other body parts I can push you away with. I can kick. And wriggle out. I wriggle really well."

"No," John says again. "No tying up."

Tim shakes his head.

"You said it yourself, _I_ make the rules," John says, squinting at him. "So this is my rule. No tying up. Fucking thank me I agreed to do this again at all."

"Yeah, alright," Tim says, touching his teeth with his tongue. "I did say that, didn't I? And thank you."

John makes a face and turns off the tap.

"Would you mind if I just keep my hands behind my back?" Tim inquires, pulling off his pants.

"I..." John says, biting his lips. "Yeah, I guess, that's okay. But like, if anything is wrong, you'll—"

"Yeah, I'll punch you, don't you worry," Tim nods.

John sticks his tongue out at him.

"Lose your clothes too, by the way," Tim says, throwing away his shirt. "You're gonna get wet anyway. I don't want to listen to your whining again."

"Fuck you," John says and takes off his leading lady apparel.

"Alright," Tim says, once they are both naked. "Do you need me to call you a dumb greedy cocksucker or are you pissed off with me already?"

"Fuck!" John yelps, and Tim smirks. "I fucking hate you. Bend over, you shit."

Tim bends over, putting his hands behind his back.

"And don't mess up the tempo," he adds, chuckling, and then his head gets repeatedly shoved into the tub full of cold water by John's infuriated hand, his ingenious insults doing their job, Tim himself panting and snarling and trying to wriggle out and twisting one of his hands in another to add to experience and losing his spatial orientation quickly and being delightfully subdued and magnificently slippery and empty headed and steaming like a cooling engine and masochistically hard and utterly devoted and simply in love with his personal tormentor, John keeping him under water and not letting him catch a breath and pressing on his nape and pulling at his hair and most definitelly keeping the tempo and pushing him with his knee and holding him in place and showing him his and being enthusiastic and very talented and simply fucking perfect at all of that.

Tim enjoys himself until the thermonuclear gratitude and radioactive pride fill up his chest to the very brim. Then he wriggles out of John's grip without using his hands and splashes him with water using them to instigate further undoing.

"Fuck!" John says and pushes him away, Tim falling on the floor on his knees and laughing like a maniac, admiring John's enraged face and John's indignant marble statue of a body and John's sadistically erect cock. "You fucking asshole."

"Told you, I am a fucking master of wriggling out," Tim says, smirking at him. "Come on, fuck my disrespectful face."

John takes a step closer and grabs him by his hair, and Tim opens his trap wide in a very inviting gesture, and John stuffs his mouth with his delectable cock and fucks his disrespectful face and tells him to put his hands behind his back again, and Tim happily obliges and stands there on his knees on the floor where he belongs and feels fucking rapturous.

Then John comes down his throat and shakes spectacularly and tells him to jerk off in a breathtakingly unsteady voice and insults him in sensationally impolite terms, and Tim jerks off on the floor and bares his teeth at him and tells him to spit in his irreverent yap and to punch his impudent snout and to kick his audacious guts and to beat him into submission, and John tells him to shut the fuck up and slaps his grinning face pretty adequately, and Tim comes all over the floor he stands on his knees on.

Then he cleans the fucking floor, but sadly not in the offensive and very unhygienic way he suggested he do, just wiping the water and his own junk with a rag instead, following John's irritated petition, chuckling at the unexpected turn in his servitude.

"You are unrivaled, John," Tim says some time later, lying on John's bed with a cigarette in his highly content mouth, his hands locked behind his neck, looking at John obsessing over his hairdo in front of the mirror. "Exceptional. Incomparable. Transcendent. Let me kiss your unrelenting fingers."

"Jesus," John says, puts down the hairbrush and comes closer to the bed, holding his hand out. "Here. You sick fuck. You owe me three days of Nice Tim."

"Thirty three," Tim says, planting a kiss on the back of his hand and grinning. "This humid exercise of ours was flawless. I'm gonna be your lackey forever."

John lies down as well, unwrapping his fucking chocolate bar.

"This fucked up shit of yours is weird," he says, taking a bite and chewing. "I wanna know what you were getting off on."

"What were _you_ getting off on?" Tim asks, taking a drag and smirking.

"Fuck off," John says. "Seriously, I don't get it. Were you like imagining something? Like you're a prisoner or a hostage?"

"Nah," Tim says, puffing out the smoke. "That's boring."

"Then what were you thinking of?"

"To be honest, mostly nothing," Tim says, looking at the ceiling for a second. "Well, and about how astonishingly cruel and amazing you are. And how pitiful and despicable I am. It's kinda hard to have complex plots in your head when it cannot get any rest, you know."

John giggles.

"That's it?" he asks.

Tim shrugs.

"Bullshit," John says. "You were fucking hard."

"I wasn't the only one," Tim says, putting out his cigarette and propping himself on one elbow. "Psychoanalyze yourself and you'll figure it out."

John makes a face and gnaws on his sweet treat again.

"Fuck you," he says, his mouth full. "Tell me."

"Dude," Tim says, sighing. "There isn't always a story, you know. I guess it's mostly just lack of oxygen and some adrenaline pumping. And it clears my head."

"It clears your head?"

"Yeah," Tim says. "Come on, you've seen me hugging bathtubs many times."

"That's different."

"Well, it's kinda how it started," Tim says. "Then I discovered other, more erotic aspects of this particular activity. And then a couple of good samaritans gave me their strong helping hands. That's it."

John pouts.

"What, you wanted some dirty secrets?" Tim asks, grinning. "I can tell you what I am thinking about when I have the upper extremity. Wanna know what I entertain myself with when Ginger comes all over himself with my arm around his neck?"

"Fuck," John says. "No. Shut up."

"Thought so," Tim says. "How about I tell you about Ginger's inner life at those moments?"

"Fucking hell," John says, slapping him. "Stop it. No. That's sick. And stop getting on my nerves. I see what you are trying to do here. Horny maniacal shark."

Tim chuckles and lights up another cigarette.

"Alright," he says. "Sorry about that. Can't help myself. You're so pretty when you despise me."

John sticks his tongue out at him.

"On a more serious note," Tim speaks again after a few moments. "I'm kinda interested in getting to use that pretentious fucking cloth on Ginj again. If you agree to supervise us, that is."

John frowns.

"Fuck, Tim," he says. "Haven't you had enough? What you did last month—"

"Yeah, sorry about that as well," Tim cuts him short. "I fucked up. Got way too fucking energized. Not gonna happen again."

"What even _did_ fucking happen?" John asks. "You fuckers never told me."

"Ginj was showing me some tricks and I got carried away," Tim says.

John slaps him again. Tim takes several drags, lying there silent, and then sighs.

"We're..." he says. "We're working on a little project with Ginj. I can't give you details now, okay? It's not my sin to confess. Ginj'll tell you himself."

John squints at him for a few seconds and then nods.

"Great," Tim says. "I can elaborate on my subsequent unreasonable behaviour, though, if you want me to."

"No," John says. "Fuck. You homicidal shit."

"Guilty as charged," Tim says. "Wanna hug?"

"Yeah," John says, and Tim puts his cigarette out and pulls him closer.

"So about the scarf..." Tim starts again after a minute or so.

"Fuck," John says. "Do you really need to? It's fucking dangerous."

"No, but I want to," Tim says. "And I'll try to make it as safe as possible. And I'll give that nerdy bullshit back to you afterwards. And I'll never look at the pictures you take at the clubs again. And I'll pray for selective dementia."

"I..." John says. "Ginj..."

"Ginj'll agree," Tim says. "I mean, you can talk to him and everything, sure. But he agreed to all of it long ago. So..."

"Fuck," John says. "Fuck, okay. But you won't even speak about choking for at least six months after this. And no bathtub business either."

"Deal," Tim says. "I'll just amuse myself by our imaginary strangulation thing if I feel like I am tilting into this direction again."

"Jesus," John says. "Shut up before I changed my mind."

Tim shuts up and then three days later gets to use the repugnant velvet scarf he was obsessively thinking even more repugnant thoughts about for several weeks after he accidentally saw it in the photos the stupid kissing bastards took while they were dancing.

Tim shuts up and gets to fuck John on all fours beforehand, instructing the agitated squid with an unlawful erection and even more illicit breath to wait in another room, gratifying both John and himself by some angry pounding and hair pulling and butt slapping and horrible tales of anal wrecking and ensuring that both of them are as reasonable as they can be.

Tim shuts up and invites the agitated eavesdropping squid back into the bedroom after John eats a shit ton of candy and Tim smokes a rather discreet couple of cigarettes and they both drink a gallon of water each and makes him lie on the bed he's just been furiously hammering John on and whispers in his ear, telling him horrible tales of suffocated agony and making him even more agitated and touching his throat he has conflicting desires about, while John fondles his cock just like he fondles his guitars, ensuring that the squid is ready to come in twenty seconds and thus terminate their perilous endeavour before Tim risks terminating him.

Tim shuts up and John shuts up and Ginger shuts up and then magical, criminal, glorious things happen. Tim sits on the bed and wraps the purple bullshit around Ginger's neck and pulls at it and bares his teeth like a murderous bastard he is, and John sits in the chair in front of the bed and hugs himself by his shoulders and whines and grits his teeth like a traumatized witness he is, and Ginger writhes on the bed and puts his hand around his cock and jerks off and gasps pathetically like a reckless victim he is, and Tim stares at John's beautiful shattering features and shows him his haunted shark snout and his ugly inner demon, and John avoids looking at Tim's haunted shark snout and at his ugly inner demon that is the very same entity as Tim himself and stares at Ginger instead and shows Tim what is written on his dumb asphyxiated face in the magical mirror of his fracturing visage and shows Ginger what is written in his pretty normal heart, and Ginger stares into the abyss and loses his mind and shows his bleeding essence and comes all over himself as usual and gets incinerated inside Tim's fission bomb of a muscular organ that pumps the adrenaline produced by his fucking cerebrum he lost fourteen billion years ago, and all of it lasts a little longer than twenty seconds and ends with them being a breathless, but very much vivid pile of limbs Tim is still somehow a legitimate part of, and the ostentatious provocative rag ends up in a secret drawer in John's house for a bit longer than six months.

***Five multiplied by ten to the power of thirty***

"God, I love your skin," Tim says, trailing his fingers over Ginger's arm slowly, Ginger pressed into him with his back, his naked body vibrating under the touch. "So goddamn soft. Warm. Tender. Fucking perfect."

Ginger's plasma fluctuates next to him.

"Tim, I..." he whispers, voice uneven.

"Shush," Tim says, drawing circles on Ginger's stomach. "Shut up and listen. Shut up and enjoy yourself."

"Fuck," Ginger breathes out.

"I love your fucking body," Tim says, sliding his hand up and down Ginger's thigh. "I love how easily you blush. I love how sweaty you get when we fuck. I love how you shiver all the fucking time. I love how damn hot your body is. Like you are melting. I love touching you. I love your goddamn skin, Ginger. Your soft, warm, tender skin. And I don't even want to do anything morally wrong with it, can you believe it?

Ginger laughs softly and shivers like he does all the fucking time.

"I love how sensitive you are," Tim says, going on with his manual exploration. "I love your ridiculous nipples. Your ludicrous feet. Your lips you let me fuck up every day. I love your bony knees. I love how you arch your neck when you come. I love how your cock throbs before you come. I love your fucking cock. You've got the best cock ever, Ginger. Cock of all cocks."

Ginger shakes with laughter again, and Tim takes his hand in his own, placing it on Ginger's steaming skin.

"I love your amenable hair you let me pull," Tim says, urging Ginger to join him in his mapping journey. "I love your back. You have a beautiful fucking back. That goddamn wifebeater of yours is the sexiest garment I've ever seen. I love your arms you wrap around my horrible fucking body. I love your affectionate fucking hands you still touch me with. I feel fucking blessed when you do, you know."

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says, letting out a moan. "You... What—"

"Shush," Tim says, running his palm over Ginger's shoulder in an abhorrently tender manner. "I want you to know this, Ginger. I love being molested by you every fucking night. I love it when you hug me in the doorway. I love feeling you next to me in the morning. You're the only thing that's worth the suffering of waking up, Ginger. If you weren't there in bed with me I would prefer to just fall into a coma."

Ginger lets out a gentle chuckle, and Tim feels it reverberating on his metal casing.

"I love how gooey you get after you come," Tim says, spreading his fingers wide on Ginger's throat. "I love how you fall on top of me after you fuck me. So helpless. Like a blanket made of jelly. I love holding you while you convulse on me. I love how much you shake. I love how tight you clench. I love how lost you look. How black your eyes are. How feverish your face is. I love that invisible lightbulb you most definitely have in your mouth."

Ginger starts laughing once more, Tim's heartless digits he holds his face with caressed by the bursts of air.

"I love seeing you undone," Tim says, circling Ginger's lips. "You are so beautiful. You are hot. I always want you, Ginger. I can never stop. I want you even with that motherfucking beard I can't look at that you wear on tour. Even when you sniff your snot. When you blow your disgusting nose. I'll want you even when you get old and useless. When you develop erectile dysfunction. I'll still want you even after that tragedy."

Ginger turns around in his arms, tremors going through his body, and Tim pushes his hair off his face, looking at him and chuckling too.

"You know what I love doing?" Tim asks, cupping his cheek.

"What?" Ginger says, blinking at him.

"Just don't tell anybody, it's a secret," Tim says, lowering his voice. "I love kissing you, Ginger. I love even that."

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says, his stupid eyes going wet.

"Hey, no crying," Tim says, shaking his head. "I'm cleansing my body through dry fasting today. Don't seduce this monster anonymous."

He covers Ginger's quivering lips with his sealed ones and kisses him until the universe reaches its contemporary state.

"What do you want, Ginger?" Tim asks, pulling away. "What do you want from me?"

Ginger looks at him, his stupid wet eyes moving up and down, searching for something on his face, as if there is anything to be found there apart from teeth.

"What do you want me to do?" Tim asks, forcibly hiding his biological weaponry and wrapping his hand around Ginger's cock that is very much erect and functioning.

"Can you..." Ginger starts, voice unsure. "Can you fuck me?"

"Of course," Tim says, nodding. "How? How do you want it?"

Ginger puts his tentacle on Tim's hand and pulls it away from his cock, interlocking their fingers.

"I want to..." Ginger whispers. "I want to be on top of you. And... I want you to hold me. My hands."

"You want pathetic stumbling?" Tim asks, frowning. "It's not very comfortable."

"I..." Ginger says, biting his lips. "I like it. I like it when you pull me down. When you... When you meet me halfway."

Tim smirks and shakes his head.

"God, Ginger," he says. "You do understand I do that to make it even harder for you? I don't do it to help you. I do it to amuse myself."

"I..." Ginger says, closing his eyes for a second. "Yes."

"So..."

"I still... I still like it, Tim."

"Fucking idiot," Tim says, feeling his chest go tight.

"Fuck off," Ginger says.

Tim sighs.

"Alright," he says, putting Ginger's hand on his imploding fission bomb full of guilt. "Okay. I'll fuck you like a moron, if that's what you want."

Ginger pushes him slightly and then clenches his fist.

"And..." he starts speaking again after a second.

"What?"

"I..." he swallows hard and shuts his eyes tight.

"Come on," Tim says, lifting their joint hands and kissing Ginger's. "Everything is okay. What else do you want?"

"I want to..." Ginger whispers. "Fuck. I want to suck you off afterwards."

Tim scoffs.

"Ginger," he says, gritting his teeth that won't be tasting any meat today. "That's just—"

"I..." Ginger says, interrupting him. "I want it. Fuck, I think I really want it."

"Ginj," Tim says, gripping his hand tighter. "Stop catering to me. It's fucking ridicul—"

"Fuck off, Tim," Ginger says, shivering. "I... I fucking like it."

"Why?" Tim asks. "Why would you like it?"

Ginger just breathes silently for a few seconds. Tim releases his hand and puts his in his hair, combing it with his fingers. Ginger slowly opens his eyes and looks at him.

"I..." he forces out. "Fuck. Tim. I..."

"Don't wanna tell me?" Tim asks.

"I do... Just... It's fucking—"

"Too hard?"

Ginger nods.

"But you're sure that you want it?" Tim asks, looking at his blushing face.

"I don't know," Ginger says, and his lips twitch in a painful smile. "I don't fucking know. I think I do. Fuck, Tim."

"Yeah," Tim says, mirroring his facial expression. "I get it. Okay. Let's try this, if you want. We'll see how it goes, alright?"

"Alright," Ginger says. "Thank y—"

"Hey," Tim says, pressing his hand over his mouth. "Stop it. Gratitude is not allowed today. Stop forcing food down my throat. Don't worry, I'll be back at gnawing on you in no time. There is no need to wine and dine me."

Ginger laughs, his hot breath tingling Tim's fingers.

"Come on," Tim says, removing the hand. "Want me to stretch you?"

"Yeah," Ginger says.

A few minutes later Tim gathers all of his scarce generosity and helps Ginger onto his cock, holding it at the base and guiding it inside, Ginger's hands on his shoulders.

Ginger moans and blushes.

"You alright?" Tim asks, looking up at him, at his face half-covered in hair, placing his hands on his hips. "Tell me if it hurts."

"It doesn't," Ginger says, shaking his head. "I'm alright."

"Okay," Tim says, gripping his body a little tighter. "Wanna start moving? I'll help you."

Ginger nods and rocks his hips Tim's holding with his hands and slides up and down Tim's cock, his hands sweaty on Tim's shoulders, his hole tight around Tim, his body shivering, his cock touching Tim's stomach, red spots blossoming on his cheeks, soft little noises escaping his twitching lips.

_Ridiculous bastard,_ Tim thinks, smiling at him, his chest heavy with a hot dense mass forever occupying it. _Awkward fuck._

"Tim," Ginger says, his wet fingers trembling on Tim's shoulders.

"I'm here," Tim says, looking at his eyes going black. "Good? Do you like it?"

"Yeah," Ginger breathes out. "Tim. Can you..."

"What?" Tim asks, pushing his hair away from his face. "What do you want?"

"Can you move too?" Ginger says in one go.

"Sure," Tim says and jerks up his hips several times. "Like that?"

"A bit... A bit slower."

"Okay," Tim says, and slows down, fucking into him, interrupting the stuttering rhythm of his motions that he thinks he should make into a tune that only John could play, making Ginger wriggle on his cock, gasping and getting lost and moaning audibly with that lightbulb he has in his mouth.

"Oh God," Ginger says, and Tim feels lightnings stinging his skin, waves of heat rolling over his body. "I... Tim. I love you, Tim."

"I know," Tim says, working his hips and keeping his hands on Ginger's. "Want me to hold you?"

"Yeah," Ginger says and shakes. "Yes. Gonna come."

"Come here," Tim says, grabbing Ginger by his wrists and pulling him half down, squeezing his fingers tight around him.

"Oh fuck," Ginger says, pushing his ass back and convulsing on top of him. "Gonna come. Fuck. Don't let me go. I love you."

"I won't," Tim says, lifting himself up, straining his abdomen muscles. "Just don't fucking cry, okay? Everything is fine."

"Okay," Ginger says, stumbling pathetically on him, his cock swaying with their shared discordant movement, his hole pulsing around Tim. "Fuck, okay."

"Come on," Tim says, leaking radiation underneath him, pushing his cock deeper in Ginger's hole, plutonium imploding in his chest. "Don't worry. Take it. Have it. You're beautiful. You're fucking perfect."

"Tim," Ginger says and lets out a long moan and starts clenching around him, tight and hot, and melting on top of him, tender and helpless, and Tim looks at him, crushing his fingers in his own and fucking into him, providing his fucked up support and his wretched comfort, looks at his fractured, shattered, fragmented face shaping into a puzzle he hasn't yet solved, at chaos getting structured, at things being accepted, being grown, being created, being _designed_, looks at his renewed, raw, vulnerable essence and feels nuclear joy he cannot describe, nuclear joy for which he has no name, nuclear joy for which he knows no words, keeping the useless units of speech and his bloodthirsty teeth behind his lips shut tight, Tim looks at him and Ginger looks back, coming and absorbed in pleasure, less ashamed and less disturbed and maybe even on his own terms.

Tim pours Ginger's shaking sweaty boiling body on the sheets once his orgasm is over. Ginger smiles at him weakly, a trembling mess, a steaming pile of goo, a criminal blanket made of jelly, a selfless idiot full of fucking gratitude.

Tim pours Ginger down on the bed and Ginger smiles at him. Ginger smiles at him and licks his lips and grabs Tim's hand.

Ginger looks at his cock.

Tim frowns.

"Ginj," he says, sighing.

"I want to," Ginger says, closing his eyes for a moment and squeezing his tentacle on Tim's ruthless extremity. "I really want to."

"Fuck," Tim says and shakes his head. "Fuck, okay."

He moves as if propelled by tranquil waters of the ocean and sits on top of Ginger. He puts his hand in Ginger's amenable hair, helping him up slowly and softly, as if tired, so unlike when he is gorging on him. Ginger props himself on his elbows, and Tim waits, and Ginger's ragged breath burns his metal shell, and Ginger's miserable face is fluctuating in a quantum state.

Tim doesn't know if he is going to do that.

Tim cannot speak.

Ginger shuts his eyes tight.

_You don't have to do this_, Tim cannot say. _You don't have to do this, if you don't want to._

_I won't be disgusted by you_, Tim cannot say. _I won't be disgusted by you, if you do._

"I love you," Tim says instead. "I love you, Ginger."

And Ginger shudders. And Ginger opens his eyes. And Ginger licks the tip of his cock.

"Fuck, I love you so much," Tim says instead.

And Ginger takes him in his mouth. And Ginger moans. And Tim explodes on top of him. And Ginger sucks him off. And Tim bites both of his hands. And Ginger looks at him. And Tim prays for absolution. And Ginger just makes him come instead.

Ginger just makes him come in his fucking mouth instead.

"No, I am not buying it," Tim says fourteen billion years later, lighting up a cigarette and taking a drag. "It can't be. It must be some fucking imprinting or something."

"Fuck off," Ginger says, trying to snatch the cigarette away from him. "I like it."

Tim scoffs.

"Yeah, right," he says, giving the smoke to him. "You like kissing and holding hands and placid fingering and fluffy sex and cuddling in bed and imaginary shit eating I forced you into. Sure. Makes sense."

"Fuck you, Tim," Ginger says and shakes next to him, a cold current running over his skin.

"Hey," Tim says and puts his hand in his hair. "Stop with this. Stop with your fucking shitshame or I'm gonna bake a fucking cake with the real thing and feed it to you. We'll eat it for a week. Chill out in a hospital for a month. And then I'll fuck you. I'll still fuck you after that."

Ginger laughs, and Tim kisses him.

"You got me?" he asks, pulling away.

Ginger nods.

"Good," Tim says, taking the cigarette from him. "Now back to our subject..."

"Fuck," Ginger says, sighing. "Tim. I told you I liked it."

"Yeah, and I am fucking skeptical of that," Tim says and puffs out the smoke. "I mean, okay, I understand the stumbling. But this is just... It's fucking nonsense."

"God, Tim," Ginger says, closing his eyes for a second. "I li—"

"Why?" Tim asks, shoving the cigarette between his lips. "Tell me why you like it then."

Ginger exhales the smoke and looks at his callous interrogative snout.

"It's..." he manages. "I don't... I just... I like it with you. Okay? I just like it with you."

Tim exhales his thermonuclear frustration.

"Okay," he says, grabbing at the beer and taking a swig. "Okay. Let's stop with the suffering. Or I'll get fucking energized. Okay. You like vanilla in general and feces with me. Fuck. Alright."

"Fuck off," Ginger says and lies on his shoulder.

Tim puts out his cigarette and runs his palm over Ginger's vertebrae.

"You know what," he says after a minute or so. "I'll just have to do it too. If you can't explain it to me. I'll just do it myself. Then maybe I'll get it. What do you think?

Ginger shivers and lifts his head to look at him.

"You want to..."

"Yeah," Tim nods. "I'm gonna suck my filth off you. Maybe then I'll understand what you are so thrilled about."

Ginger frowns.

"You don't ha—"

"God, shut up," Tim says, chuckling. "Of course I don't have to. I want to. I am fucking intrigued now, you know. I feel like I am missing something in life."

Ginger lets out a soft laugh.

"You..." he says. "You've never done it before?"

Tim thinks for a few seconds and then shrugs.

"Fuck, I don't know," he says. "I might have. I am not sure. I am kinda really into making people come up my ass once they get in there. And I am not a fan of AIDS, so condoms were usually involved. I mean, it's not like I've been fucking married till death do us part like this before. Precautions were needed."

Ginger snorts and pushes him, Tim catching his hand and smirking at him.

"But I am a dirty unreasonable bastard," he says, kissing Ginger's fingers. "Who does drugs and drinks a lot and fucks multiple strangers in one night. So I think I must have done it a couple of times. I mean, it's kinda inevitable with my lifestyle."

"Fucking hell," Ginger says, going red.

"Yeah, I'm really filthy," Tim says and grabs the bottle again. "Want beer?"

Ginger takes several swigs.

"Then why..." he starts. "Then why do you need to do it again? If you've probably done it before."

"Well, if did, I didn't do it on purpose," Tim says, turning to lie on his side. "I don't even fucking remember, you know. So it's different. I wanna see what you are getting out of it. It's not about shit, right?"

Ginger swallows hard and shakes his head.

"And it's not a forbidden fruit thing either," Tim continues, looking at Ginger's stupid self-conscious face. "That would be John's department. You are not depraved enough to get off on your own immorality. You are a fucking virgin."

Ginger expresses his indignation and informs him that John is not depraved either, grabbing at the cigarette package again, while Tim raises an objection and proves him wrong.

"Anyway," he says, accepting the smoke Ginger puts between his teeth. "It's not that. And it's not anything like my cannibalistic tendencies. Fuck, that would be really weird. Fucking autophagy."

Ginger laughs, and Tim pulls him closer, the fumes they exhale starting to intermix.

"And you keep insisting it's also not just about doing it for my greedy ass, so—"

"It's not," Ginger says. "I mean... Fuck."

"I know," Tim says, sighing. "It's not like we can actually separate these things, to be honest. But I get it. You like it in both cases. Relax."

"Okay," Ginger says.

"So yeah," Tim says, sniffing his hair. "I wanna solve this mystery. Maybe I'll love it too. Maybe I'll develop a new bizarre kink. And get to share it with you. And my enteric fauna will finally get to travel the world as well. If you agree to kiss my crappy mouth afterwards, of course."

"God, Tim," Ginger says, a smile in his voice.

"That a yes?" Tim asks, a grin in his.

"Fuck off," Ginger says, and his tentacle lands on Tim's purring chest.

Tim puts out their cigarettes a minute later and they gradually fall asleep.

Two days later Ginger does kiss his crappy mouth afterwards.

Before he does, though, Tim lies on his back and spreads his legs for him, inviting him to stick his awesome cock in his hole full of diarrhea and fuck it out of him, Ginger blushing at his words and jumping at the blows Tim applies to his own face to ensure that he is going to be the first one to orgasm. Before Ginger kisses his crappy mouth afterwards Ginger kisses his crap free mouth during their exercise, displaying his affection and his fluffy inclination once again. Before he kisses his crappy mouth and turns the microscopic inhabitants of his lower intestine into certified vagabonds he introduces them to their relatives who reside in Tim's beaten mouth and appeases it immensly by that.

"Come here," Tim says before that happens. "Feed me my shit."

Ginger fucks him on his back, and Tim comes, his fist in his beaten mouth, his legs wrapped around Ginger's beautiful back, his hole clenching tight around Ginger's awesome cock, his eyes on Ginger's feverish uncertain face, his warhead of a heart in a spiralling descent.

Tim comes and smiles at the gooey blanket. Tim smiles at the gooey blanket, and Ginger slowly pulls out. Tim smiles and props himself on his elbows.

"Come here," Tim says and opens his beaten mouth. "Feed me my shit."

Tim opens his beaten mouth like Ginger's been opening his for him, and Ginger blinks helplessly at him, and Ginger shivers, and Ginger moves to sit on top of him. Tim opens his beaten mouth and burns Ginger's soft, tender, perfect skin with deadly gas, and Ginger gasps on top of him, and Ginger moans on top of him, and Ginger sobs on top of him. Tim takes Ginger's awesome cock in his beaten mouth and sucks on it and eats his filth and looks at Ginger and growls happily around him, and Ginger comes on top of him, and Ginger falls on top of him, and Ginger says he loves him.

It's after all of this that Ginger kisses Tim's crappy mouth.

"I think I got it," Tim says some time later, sticking a cigarette in his crappy mouth. "I mean, I still like yours more, but I wouldn't mind making this arrangement regular as well."

"I think I got it," Tim says next, taking a drag. "I should've done it fucking sooner. I should've joined you. I should've made it fair. I should finally give something back to you."

"I think I got it," Tim says after that, puffing out the smoke. "It's about bonding. It's that feeling close to me thing of yours. It's seeing that I want you near me even if you are like this. It's not about you. It's about how I look at you when you do it."

"Okay," Ginger says. "If you want to."

"Tim," Ginger says. "You don't have to."

"Fuck," Ginger says. "Yes. God, Tim. Yes."

***One point fifty seven multiplied by ten to the power of seven***

"Calm the fuck down," Tim hisses quietly, gripping John's wriggling body tight. "You'll ruin the apparition."

They sit in the chair together.

They don't sit in the chair backwards like Tim's been sitting in it alone for the last several months.

They sit in the armchair properly, and Tim is angry and hard underneath John, and John is greedy and hard on top of him, and Ginger is not there with them in the armchair, Ginger is on the bed, showcasing his belated anal masturbation to John, who's recently been acquainted with the details of their latest project and subsequently invited to witness things that have been kept away from him.

They sit in the chair together, and Ginger is writhing on the bed, his eyes closed, his body sweaty, his vocal cords flapping, his hands confused and jittery once again, his hole stuffed with the dildo, his awesome cock up in the air, his sensitive fucking nipples stimulated by clamps Tim happily dug out for him beforehand, and it is the worst kind of torture to sit in that chair.

They sit in the chair together and lose their fucking minds.

John also whines.

John whines, wriggling in Tim's lap, not making it any easier, making it infinitely harder, making it fucking impossible to sit still and not come closer, not to creep closer, not to jump closer.

John whines in Tim's lap.

"Calm the fuck down," Tim hisses. "You'll ruin the apparition."

"Fuck off," John whispers, pressing his avaricious ass into Tim's stiff neglected ascetic cock. "It's hot. I want—"

"Shut up," Tim says, exhaling the units of speech in his petulant ear. "Think about how much _I_ want. Think about what Ginger wants. Stop being so selfish."

John elbows him. Tim curses under his breath. Ginger moans on the bed. John whines again.

"Fuck, alright," Tim spits out, nudging John to stand up. "Take your goddamn pants off."

He doesn't need to ask twice.

"Just be fucking quiet," Tim says, licking his fingers and shoving them inside John's impatient ass, John's spoiled head falling on his numb wooden shoulder, John biting his lips, Tim wrapping his hand around his cock and clasping his own lips, sewing them together, gritting his bloodthirsty teeth behind them.

John disobeys.

Ginger squirms on the bed, arching and pulling at the chain and pulling at his cock and fucking himself on the dildo and engaging in delectable and very inviting sound production, and Tim stares at him with blurry eyes, barely seeing him, seeing red instead, and suffers in the chair, suffers beyond belief, suffers under John's salacious body, and John disobeys, whining and breathing and whimpering and saying things, being criminally audible, being a filthy jerk, being annoying, being Tim's personal tormentor.

Tim's misery traditionally lasts a little longer than twenty seconds.

Luckily, Tim's misery ends before the universe forms into its current shape.

Ginger comes on the bed, arching and pulling at the chain and jerking his hips up and jerking off with his jittery, confused, insufficient hand, moaning with an open mouth and staring at John with his black eyes, staring at Tim with his black eyes, barely seeing them, being absorbed in his own thoughts, and John comes on top of Tim, wriggling in his old, hospitable, adaptable fucking lap, clenching around his accommodating fingers, spilling in his obliging fist, moaning obscenely, and Tim doesn't come in the chair, starving and shaking and leaking and moaning in fucking agony.

Tim comes on the floor a minute later.

Ginger comes on the bed and says John's name. John comes on top of Tim and says Ginger's name. John gets up and comes closer to bed, jumps closer to bed, runs closer to bed. John falls on the bed and Ginger welcomes him in his post-orgasmic embrace. Tim falls on his knees and beats off on the floor.

Tim comes on the floor, pressing his overheating skull into that shameful surface, crushing his molten cock in his rejected pliers, snarling and wiping out all life on Earth, a nuclear warhead bent into a question mark.

Tim comes on the floor and stays lying on the floor.

Maybe, Tim really belongs on the floor.

"I don't know," Ginger says. "It's just hard for me."

"Are you..." John starts. "Are you ashamed of it?"

"God," Ginger says. "No. I guess. I mean, I've never done it with anybody else. I am a fucking virgin."

John laughs.

"Are you?" Ginger asks.

"What?"

"Are you ashamed of it?"

"Fuck," John says. "No. I... Maybe. A little. Not of it exactly. But of some things, you know. Some dumb things I've done."

They kiss.

"I think..." John says. "It's like everybody is a bit ashamed of something like that."

"He's probably not."

"Yeah, probably."

Tim is most definitely not ashamed of anything like _that._

Tim smokes on the floor.

"It's not that," Ginger says. "I don't think so... It's just..."

"Yeah?"

"It's all tied up to him," Ginger sighs. "It's always about this thing..."

"Ginj."

"I always think about him," Ginger says. "I always miss him. Fuck, do you know how much I miss him?"

"I know," John says. "You love him."

"Fuck," Ginger says. "He's broken me, John."

"God, Ginj."

They kiss.

"He's done things to me," Ginger starts again. "He made me do things. He made me say things. Fuck. Ugly fucking things. He made me into nothing."

"You are not nothing."

"I am," Ginger says. "He made me into nothing and I liked it. I liked all of it. I fucking thanked him for that. I love him for that."

"Fucking hell, Ginj."

They hug.

The bed shakes.

Tim shakes on the floor.

"Don't you hate me for that?"

"God," John gasps. "Of course, not. I love you. Of course, I don't hate you."

"Fuck," Ginger forces out. "I... He hurt me so much. He hurt me and I just let him. It's... It's fucking disgusting."

"It's not," John says. "You love him. It's... It's fucking beautiful, okay?"

Ginger laughs.

"I'd let him kill me," he says. "I'd let him fucking kill me, John."

"Ginj."

"Yeah," Ginger says. "I'd let him do anything."

"That's..." John starts. "Fuck. Aren't you scared?"

"Of course, I am."

"Fuck."

"Are you?"

"I guess," John says. "Fuck, yes. I am. But I don't hate you, okay? I don't. It's not your fault."

It's Tim's.

And Tim's on the floor.

Tim's choking on his bile on the floor.

"Do you hate _me?_" John asks.

"What?"

"Do you hate me for..." John stutters. "For watching."

"God, John," Ginger gasps. "Of course, not. Why would I hate you?"

"Fuck," John says. "Because I don't do anything. I just let him hurt you."

"It's alright. I... I like it when he hurts me."

"I..." John starts. "I fucking like it too. I mean..."

"Yeah?"

"I don't want to hurt you. I really don't."

"I know."

"But..." John says. "I fucking like it when he does it. And it's like..."

"John."

"It's like I am doing it to you too, you know. Like I am breaking you too."

"Fuck," Ginger says. "No. You aren't. I love you. Don't think that. Please, just don't think that."

Tim doesn't think that.

Tim thinks some other things.

Tim is a dead rotting carcass on the floor.

"I feel like shit because of it," John says.

"John."

"I love you," John says. "But I love that crazy fucker too."

"I know," Ginger says. "He... He also loves us."

"Fuck."

"He does," Ginger says. "Just... Just like a crazy fucker."

John laughs.

"Fuck, I hate him," he says. "It's all his fault. Why do you have to feel ashamed because of him?"

"I..."

"Don't you fucking hate him too?"

"No," Ginger sighs. "I can't."

"Fuck," John spits out. "I wonder how he fucking feels."

"Probably like shit too."

They kiss.

They kiss and Tim dies a slow agonizing death on the floor.

They kiss and they ask him a question.

"No," he says.

"I feel guilty," he says. "Guilty and ashamed. Kinda like you two, but with good reasons."

They sit up on the bed and say his name.

"And I feel pathetic self pity," he says, staying on the floor. "And I hate myself. I mean, it sucks being me. Nothing compared to being you guys, of course. But it sucks. It sucks knowing I am a monster. It sucks living in a house with a solitary confinement room. It sucks being sure it's needed. It sucks understanding I shouldn't be allowed anywhere near you. It sucks thinking I should kill myself."

They say a foul four letter word.

"And I also feel happy," he says, disintegrating on the floor. "Fuck, I feel so happy. I feel blessed. I _am_ blessed. I am a monster, and you love me. I live in a house with a much needed isolation room and I don't live there alone. I shouldn't be allowed anywhere near you and yet I am. I should be long dead, but I am still alive. I am still alive and with you."

They start fucking crying on the bed.

"And I feel hope," he says, joining them on the floor. "It's dumb, but I do. I hope that hurting you is not the only thing I know how to do. I hope I can also make you happy. I hope I can love you back. Like a crazy fucker, of course. But still. I hope I can love you enough. I hope I can give you something in return."

They drown the room in salty water after that.

They fall asleep on the bottom of the ocean.

A week later they enter that room again.

A week later Ginger lies in John's lap with his head, his naked body spread in front of him, and fucks himself with a dildo, gently and slowly, and touches himself, polishing his awesome cock, and John gives him his helping hands. Ginger lies on the bed, and John puts his magical fingers on his nipples for him, rubbing them just like Ginger wants him to, and smiles at him and gives pleasure to him, and Ginger accepts it and looks at his affectionate face above him, at his affectionate face that lacks in teeth, that displays everything Tim's doesn't, and Tim sits there on the edge of the bed next to them, silent, insignificant, invisible and smoking.

Ginger comes, arching, pressing his head into John, sweaty and blushing and shaking as always, but maybe less ashamed and less disturbed, and Tim pulls him in his own lap afterwards and turns him around by his shoulders, Tim pulls the dildo out of him and puts his hand in his hair, and Ginger throws his legs open and puts them up, his naked body now in front of Tim and in front of John, and John bites his lips and puts his hand on his cock. Tim holds the dildo next to Ginger's mouth, and Ginger takes it in his mouth and looks at John and shows himself to John, shows to him what he is once again, his body hot and melting in Tim's arms, his tender, ever-frightened essence exposed, and John jerks off and shatters into tiny pieces, and looks at Ginger the way that Tim looks at him, but like a relatively sane fucker, John looks at Ginger and wants him next to him, and shows he is close to him, and gives what Tim cannot to him, and says the words that have escaped Tim's mouth as well, and comes like that, reflecting Ginger's love much better than a mirror does.

Tim doesn't come.

Tim holds the nukestruck heads of kissing bastards in his lap, observing their reckless fecal-oral transmission, providing his scarce comfort and his angular support, his energy radiating hands combing their hair, his energy radiating heart drowning the room in deadly elementary particles, his stiff neglected ascetic cock leaking between his thighs, his smoking snout full of temporarily restrained teeth.

Tim doesn't come.

Tim's happy as it is.

***Seven point thirty five to seven point forty five***

This time the list he receives is really long.

Tim spends his money. Tim buys liver and kidneys and chicken hearts and cooks his disgusting meat thing for John. Tim buys a new cook book and presents a truly monstrous cake to John. Tim buys him countless milkshakes.

Tim spends his time. Tim takes John out. Tim follows his step. Tim shakes to the beat next to him. Tim drives him around the city. Tim sits in the back row in the movie theater with him for two hours. Tim sits in the bathtub with him forever. Tim listens to all the fourteen billion stupid country tunes of his.

Tim makes efforts. Tim wears sexy clothes for John. Tim wears make up. Tim wears a smile on his lips. Tim would wear a collar if that helped.

Tim makes sacrifices.

Tim makes bloody sacrifices in his pagan temple room to expedite the process and appease the gods.

Tim spills his seed in John's junk loving mouth.

Tim pounds John's cock-grabbing ass. Tim does it _angrily._

Tim bestows infinite pleasures on his spoiled whiny guitar jerking idiot to get some basic torment out of him.

He goes through the long list.

He is John's servant for days.

Then John finally agrees to cut him with his fucking pick.

The day that John never cuts him again they have a responsible discussion and a heated argument.

John wants him to come. John doesn't want to hurt his cock. John still needs that cock for other occasions. John wants him to shut up about its redundancy. John wants him caulked. John wants him writhing, though, so at least that brightens Tim's day.

John makes the rules and Tim conforms to them.

Tim is there to serve and obey, after all.

The day that John never cuts him again Tim comes to John's house with some additional items of bribery and a big fiery ball of thermonuclear anticipation in his chest. John greets him with some feathery frowning in the doorway. Tim berates his reluctance. John berates his volubility and threatens him with other types of violence he is less opposed to.

Tim loses his boring Ginger clothes and grants John anal access. John applies his stretching talents and stuffs his hole with Ginger's severed tentacle to make their arrangement appropriately hot. Tim doesn't mind. Tim rides the thing for him while John fumbles with his sharpened pick, displaying his cheerfull hopping and eagerly demonstrating his depravity.

Tim sits on the edge of the bed with the dildo up his ass and his unnesessary cock hanging between his legs, and John also sits between his legs and settles on his inner thighs as a destruction site. Tim growls in elation at such inspiring spatial proximity of both his personal tormentor and the wreckage area to his redundant outgrowth. John makes an enquiry.

"Hm," Tim hums and bares his teeth. "How about you carve your signature into my skin? _John 5 commands me_ or something."

His sneering trap gets full of lacy cloth a second later.

His slightly trembling masochistic thighs get cut in a delightfully offensive fashion brief moments later, Tim tasting blood and imagining blood and seeing blood, rocking his hips to gain some anal pleasure and add an orgasm to his suffering, following the outline of John's fist with his middle finger protruding upwards appearing on his miserable skin with his eyes and grinning inwardly, John chewing on his lips and wrinkling his pretty face, swallowing hard, not yet proficient enough in shark meat consumption, but still deeply appreciated by the tortured sea animal, by the sea animal full of awe and obsessive thoughts and mental images of grievous bodily harm John's heavenly cruel hands would be so befitting for causing to Tim's unessential swaying cock that gets ripe within seconds, Tim himself ready to explode and staring now at the outline of John's celestial hand with all his five fingers protruding upwards manifesting itself on his other thigh, John painting this supernal picture on Tim's casing, his own angelic visage tinted with obsidian, his inner demon that's so cherished by Tim coloring his skin with perverse arousal that Tim also holds in high esteem, coloring it with a steady radiance of crimson on his cheeks just like John himself colors Tim scarlet, the masterpiece left incomplete, Tim snarling around his textile gag and clenching around his artificial kernel and coming boiling hot just like John demanded he do and grabbing John's stuttering hands with his adrenalized ones and pressing them into the canvas and getting called a sick fuck by its pissed off creator.

Tim frees himself from John's underwear.

"Ass or mouth?" Tim offers a binary choice to its furious owner with a giant sadistic boner, deadly emission of his sincere alacrity to satisfy him in either case leaving his trap along with phonemes.

"Both?" Tim adds with a smirk, John seriously distracted by the biological fluid covering his magical extremities, staring at them as if they've just lived a life full of glorious battles to death.

Tim rides John's bewildered cock after his bloody trance is over, hopping on it even more cheerfully than he's been on Ginger's severed tentacle and enthusiastically telling him tales of other body parts that need to be detached and amputated and pressing yet one more of those over his lips, pushing his heartless ensanguined fingers in John's whining mouth, throwing best cuts of his own flesh between his overwhelmed jaws, John biting on both real and imaginary items, spilling his shocked junk inside Tim's stretched and fairly generous hole, and the temperature of his orgasm equals that of Tim's.

Then Tim's personal hypocrite calls him names, scolding him for debauchery he himself so vehemently participated in.

Then Tim calls him by his honorary titles and engages in mild autophagy, licking red off his irritated fingers.

Then Tim shoves imminent lung cancer in his mouth and John shoves impendent metabolic disorder in his.

Then John sits between Tim's spread legs again and applies possible cirrhosis to his ornamented skin, wiping the blood and wiping out poor microscopic creatures that reside on it.

Then Tim puffs out the smoke in his face and through that makes some unexpected additions to both their painful evening and the rather long list of the wicked activities he'd be as willing to engage in in the future as he is right there and then.

"Fuck!" John yells, waving his vexed hand smelling of pub and pharmacy in front of his offended nose. "Do it again and I'll fucking put your damn cigarette out on your stinky cock."

The influx of ideas in Tim's despicable mind has never been so rapid.

The drag Tim takes after that is positively urgent.

"Do it again and I'll fucking put your damn cigarette out on your stinky cock," John says after Tim puffs out the smoke in his face, and Tim immediately does it again.

"Fuck, Tim!" John says and slaps his thigh, hissing.

"Here you go," Tim says and offers him the cigarette, chuckling.

Then they have a short discussion that John starts by asking a rhetorical question pertaining to the gravity of Tim's intentions he seems rather fond of reiterating all the time and Tim finishes by looking at him with his best blond scum expression on his very determined and very contemptuous shark snout.

"Fuck you," John says. "No. I am not doing this. You mental motherfucker."

"What is it?" Tim asks, taking another drag and glancing at the ashes falling off the subject of their negotiations. "Afraid you'd fuck up? Or just lazy?"

"Fuck you," John says again. "I don't wanna do it. I don't fucking like burning people."

Tim laughs out loud.

"You don't like cutting people either," he says. "But I clearly don't fall into that category. I belong to a different species."

"Fuck you," John goes on with his mantra. "I am not doing it. Fucking do it yourself if you want it so much."

"If that's a dare," Tim says, smirking. "You should try harder. Because I will."

"Fucking hell," John changes his tune. "Are you insane?"

"I'm deranged," Tim says, inhaling the fumes. "That's well established. What needs to be determined is that if you are willing to observe just how deranged I am. Will you look at how I do it or will you run out of the room on me?"

_Now this is some high quality dare_, Tim thinks, admiring John's indignant face. _This is pure excellence._

"Jesus fucking Christ," John says, sighing. "Are you seriously gonna put this cigarette out on your cock?"

"Not this one," Tim says, putting it out in the ashtray. "The next one. I mean, we haven't yet decided on the exact spot. Do you have any suggestions?"

He lights up another cigarette and listens to more of John's exasperated swearing.

"I'd do it on the very tip," Tim says, reacting to John's foul language with a charming smile and a confidential confession. "If I were alone, that is. But if you're staying, then I want _you_ to choose. You are staying, aren't you?"

John bites his lips.

"Okay," he nods. "Fuck you, okay. I'll look at how you fucking burn yourself."

"Cool," Tim says, making efforts to shrink the cigarette in size. "So what part of my tiny radicle do you want me to combust?"

John shivers.

Tim's fission bomb purrs.

"Fuck," John says, wrinkling his nose. "Not the tip. That's fucking crazy. Do you even remember you'll need to pee?"

"Oh, not only do I remember, I am counting on that," Tim says, bringing the cigarette up to his lips in anticipation of sweet agony. "But okay. Fuck the tip. What's your proposition?"

John eyes him for a second.

"Like..." he says, voice uncertain. "At the base? On the upper side?"

Tim scoffs.

"Boring," he says. "How about... How about under the head? A compromise."

"God," John says. "Okay. Whatever. Do you need anything from me? Fuck, we are sick."

Tim chuckles and takes the last drag.

"Hold my legs?" he offers, taking his cock in his hand and pulling the foreskin down. "In case I am mistaken about my character."

He isn't.

And John doesn't abandon him either, so Tim thinks he is correct about his vile nature as well, hissing in delicious self-inflicted anguish a second later, John's promising fingers digging deep into his meat Tim is here to force feed him.

***Three hundred thirty thousand***

Ginger reads on the couch. Ginger reads a book on atomic physics Tim bought for him several days ago.

Tim smokes right beside him. Tim smokes tobacco, filling the room with exhaust.

Ginger shifts on the couch, turning the page, filling the room with the sound of rustle. A minute later he shifts again and puts the book down.

He grabs Tim's cigarette package and gets up. Tim touches his hand, brushing against it with his fingers.

"Ginj," he says, looking up at him.

"Yeah?' Ginger says. "What?"

"Are you going to the bathroom?" Tim asks, taking the last drag and putting the cigarette out.

Ginger swallows hard and nods.

"Would you mind if I go with you?" Tim asks again, keeping his voice even, face relaxed.

Ginger shivers gently.

"Why?" he asks. "Are you h—"

"No," Tim says, shaking his head and then smirking. "I mean, yeah, but it doesn't matter now. I wanna do something for you."

"What?"

"Correct for past mistakes?" Tim offers. "Create new memories? Turn excrements into chocolate?"

Ginger laughs softly.

"I..." he starts uncertainly. "If y—"

"I am _asking_," Tim interrupts him. "Asking _you._"

"Okay," Ginger says and bites his lips. "Okay, I get it. I... Fuck, alright. Just... Is it..."

"It won't be ugly," Tim says, placing his hand on his chest. "Cross my mass annihilation device."

Things bloom on Ginger's pale face.

"Okay," he says with a weak smile. "You can go with me."

"Thank you," Tim says. "I'd also love it if you were naked."

Ginger grants him that request as well, undressing in front of him, Tim taking the clothes from him and throwing them on the couch, then getting up, holding Ginger's scared hand.

"Come on," he says, winking at Ginger. "Lead the way."

They tumble into the bathroom, Tim never releasing Ginger's twitching fingers, Ginger lifting the lid of the toilet and sitting down, Tim sinking on the floor on his knees between his legs and placing his palms over his thighs.

"I wanna smoke first," Ginger says.

"Sure," Tim says and lights up a cigarette for him.

He watches Ginger smoke, trailing his fingers over his body, skin touching skin, Ginger taking nervous drags and getting hard gradually, his eyes moving up and down Tim's snout, Tim's eyes fixed on his blushing face, his hands knowing the way on their own.

"Ready?" Tim asks, once Ginger puts out the cigarette.

"I..." Ginger says. "Can I close my eyes?"

"Of course," Tim says, shrugging. "But that would impair your eyesight. You won't be able to see a single thing. You'll miss the show."

Ginger chuckles.

"Okay," he says. "Can you... Can you hold my hand?"

Tim nods and takes his hand in his own, his other hand still travelling over Ginger's soft outer tissue, steadying him. Ginger exhales rapidly several times, blinking at him and licking his lips, and then forces himself to relax, doing what he came here to do, icy currents cooling Tim's metal shell intermixing with waves of heat landing on his face, Tim feeling things forming into unfamiliar shapes on that callous surface, his casing cracking, pieces slowly getting rearranged, fluctuating, and Ginger stares at him, shivering at the shame inducing sounds he uncontrollably produces and covered in sweat, Tim dropping his hand and wrapping it around his cock, Ginger jumping slightly at the touch, his mouth falling open, Tim offering him his aching smile, raw and foreign on his lips, ducking down and putting them on Ginger, licking and caressing the tender skin, sucking him in and looking up at him, letting go of his tentacle and dropping this hand as well, spreading Ginger's thighs and squeezing it between them, reaching the intended target in a second, rubbing at his hole, Ginger shuddering and grabbing at his shoulder, moaning in a breathy voice, providing Tim with a tune, Tim pushing his fingers inside him, rhythmically moving his head, unwavering in his progressive motions, eager to swallow Ginger's pleasure just like he's swallowed his pain, Ginger's loving tentacle now shaking in his hair, vibrating on his overheating skull, Ginger coming in his mouth, filling it with his honey, clenching around Tim's fingers, the muscles of his hole pulsing, his heartbeat loud in Tim's ears.

"Tim," he whispers, and Tim lifts his head and soothes his feverish face with kisses, planting them on his wet skin, planting things that'll grow and flourish, covering his soft warm lips with his bleeding ones and tasting his joy just like he's tasted his misery.

"I love you," Ginger says, when they part.

"I know," Tim says. "Just don't start fucking thanking me or I'll bite your stupid head off. I'm on the edge here."

Ginger laughs weakly.

"Do you want me to gorge on the treat?" Tim inquires next, glancing down and shifting his hand between Ginger's thighs.

"No," Ginger says. "It's okay. I know you would."

Tim chuckles.

"Okay," he says. "I guess I've vomited enough this last week. Give me the roll then."

Ginger passes him the paper, and Tim wipes him and his own hand, pushing the flush button and getting up, standing in front of him, Ginger lifting his hand and palming his erection through his pants.

"Wanna suck me off?" Tim asks.

Ginger looks at him, his facial expression uncertain.

"Or something else?" Tim offers. "I mean, that would be too reminiscent. Which kinda defeats the purpose of this exercise."

"Can I lick you?" Ginger asks, as if he needs to.

"Yeah," Tim says, unbuttoning his shirt. "At any time of the day."

He takes off his clothes, throwing them on the shelf, and bends over the sink, opening the tap with cold water, shoving his boiling skull under the flow and gripping his own butt, spreading his cheeks, and Ginger sinks onto the floor and covers his energy emitting hands with his own trembling ones, pressing and licking into Tim, Tim rocking his hips, meeting his tongue, swearing under his breath and then under water, pressing into the sink and licking at the universal solvent, letting it fill up his trap, choking on it, tremors going through his warhead of a body, his helpless suffocated orgasm rolling over him like a shock wave, his gurgling growl echoing in the room, Ginger's reciprocal moaning reverberating on his clenching hole.

"Fingers," he says, turning off the water and lifting his soaked head, his skin a steaming casing, his legs a crumbling building, his chest a thermonuclear disaster, his self-expression succinct, but understood, Ginger's slick fingers stretching his hole, Tim pushing back on them, fucking himself on them, hurting himself on them, falling down onto the floor and sucking them into his flooded mouth, Ginger's profound fucking love his eyes are full of inundating his horrible body.

"You've got a bruise," Tim says some time later, throwing the beer and a bag of peanuts on the mattress, sitting down and grabbing Ginger's injured bony knee.

"Yeah?" Ginger asks, putting away the book on atomic physics they've been reading together and looking at the epithelium that's fallen victim to the violence of the tiles.

"Yeah," Tim says, running his fingers over it. "I think you need more of them."

Ginger shivers, and Tim bares his teeth.

"I'll whack you tomorrow," he says, glancing at Ginger's expectant face. "Well, first you've got to help me with that fucking beat I cannot figure out, okay?"

"Sure," Ginger nods.

"But then I'll fucking slap the shit out of you," Tim goes on, tasting blood in his mouth. "Tie you up. Ruin your goddamn feet. Wreck your face. Maybe I'll even do it with a belt."

"Fuck," Ginger breathes out. "Okay. You can."

"Of course I can," Tim says, touching his teeth with his tongue. "I come here not only for the food, but also for the very pliant service."

Ginger laughs, and Tim chuckles too, releasing his knee and falling on the pillows next to him.

"I'll hurt you till you fucking scream for me," he says, pushing the hair off Ginger's face. "But I won't touch your cock. I mean, I'll touch it, sure. But I won't hurt it. That's a capital offense."

Ginger lets his fingers in his mouth, sucking them, flapping his vocal cords, Tim smearing saliva around his lips.

"You fucking forage," Tim says, holding his chin, gripping it tight. "I'll break your bones. I'll break my fast. I'll fucking break _you_. I'll break you, Ginger."

"I know," Ginger whispers. "Thank you."

Tim purrs. Tim kisses his accepting lips, swallowing his essence.

"Alright," he says, letting go of his corporeal configuration and keeping the sum and substance. "Let's continue with our scientific enlightment."

So they smoke and they drink beer and they eat peanuts and they read about the electrons that are unable to escape the binding force of the nucleus within the atom.

***One hundred eighty three point two hundred four***

"You know, we can actually do it without him as well," Tim says, looking at John's magical fingers tantalazing the strings. "If it's just gaping and debauchery you want."

He quickly learns that his offer is indeed appreciated, but the phrasing needs some work.

"Shut up," Tim says, rejecting the advice he didn't ask for. "So yeah, we can pound your greedy ass. Our rubber pal you won't return to me can help us out. Will that make you happy?"

"It's gonna hurt your cock, isn't it?" John asks and puts his goddamn guitar away.

"Well, yeah," Tim says, admiring the results of his verbal sorcery. "I _am_ allowed some pleasure of my own, aren't I?"

John throws his guitar pick at him and immediately regrets it.

Tim chuckles and puts it in his pocket.

"For later," he says. "We definitely need my cock intact today. So what? Double trouble time?"

"Okay," John says. "Yeah. Let's do it."

Tim smirks and fills with pride and goes hunting for the tentacle dildo around John's house.

Then John is on his hands and knees, generating his lewd recital and rushing Tim with it, and Tim is behind him, smacking his butt and staring at his naked back, smacked by the sight himself and full of exaltation, John's avid hole half full of cock, Tim working him open with Ginger's severed tentacle, his own lump just leaking on the floor, patiently waiting to graze against the dildo. John urges him to hurry up, much less restrained than Tim's composed protrusion that John demands to have inside him right that second, Tim feeling very inclined to oblige, replacing the items and drawing more favorable tunes out of John, John moaning obscenely and arching his absolute beauty of a spine, and moaning again, this time outright vulgar, when Tim pushes the dildo in as well, bringing some company along, scraping his own cock and hissing in his perverse pleasure he is without any doubt allowed. John carries on with his vocalizing, rocking his hips backwards to meet both his pivots, to meet Tim's heartless, but accommodating hand Tim slams into his cheeks, John's marble skin changing coloration, to meet both Tim and his artificial friend, Tim in his turn working his old bones and his strained muscles, growling and eloquently describing John's somewhat less disgusting than his own, but still pretty capacious ass, his cock magnificently chafed, John's cock in John's celestial hand, John getting very energized, Tim switching subjects and eulogizing Ginger's awesome trunk that is offensively absent and outrageously tucked in his pants at some distant location where its owner is currently chatting with his even more distant relatives. Tim's candid madrigal and Tim's ingenious comparisons and Tim's proficient use of both John's skewing rods soon bear fruit, John clenching with Ginger's name on his lips and a geometrically impossible curve to his flawless spine, coming in his own fist and shuddering, Tim's hands steadying his hips, Tim's teeth overtaking his face, Tim's face pressed into John's boiling pulsing perfect hole in a second, John's angry warnings on the topic of strictly forbidden filth sucking in his ear, Tim readily engaging in filth licking instead, Tim's tongue deep in its source, the dildo hastily pulled out and thrown away by Tim's enraptured hand, that hand in a iron fist on his excoriated cock, Tim's chest full of radioactive debris, Tim himself coming with a snarl in twenty seconds, thinking he wouldn't mind spending an eternity in this particular position.

John makes a post-coital declaration, his mouth full of cake Tim brings him from the kitchen, professing his love for Tim and his ability to hammer things into John's avaricious ass, calling him amazing and then a stinky predatorial fish, restoring the delicate balance, following Tim's chuckling that is a good match to John's giggling in being truly obnoxious.

"Hm," Tim hums, his mouth full of combustion products. "So how about you fist me to demonstrate me your enormous gratitude?"

Tim is rejected right away. Tim doesn't mind. Tim likes it.

"Okay," Tim says, his lips curved in a smirk. "How about you let me fist _you_ then?"

John is pissed off that very moment. Tim doesn't mind that either. John looks fucking exquisite when he's angry.

"Alright," Tim says, his palms raised in a mock defensive gesture. "How about you bury me under those motherfucking aprons I have in my house for being so disrespectful?"

John frowns. John licks his fingers.

"Isn't it... Like, how is it gonna work without Ginj? I mean, you said it was about not being able to join us."

"Oh," Tim says, puffing out the smoke. "It'll work. You're kinda the main figure in that plot. My beloved private executioner."

John sticks his cake covered tongue out at him.

"Also, Ginj's always here with me in my fission bomb," Tim continues, placing his hand over his chest. "I've swallowed him whole."

John throws a fork he hasn't been using at him.

"And if I am wrong, you can make efforts and provide me with commentary," Tim adds. "Tell me I don't deserve him. Tell me he is his own person. Tell me I can't have him. Tell me he is not my food. That would rile me up for sure."

"Fuck you," John says, pursing his lips and wrinkling his pretty face. "You _don't_ deserve him. You shit."

"Of course I don't," Tim says, putting out the cigarette. "That's why it's gonna work. Truth stings the most."

John sighs.

"So?" Tim asks, patting the mattress, urging John to get on with the snuggling. "Are you gonna induce some panic and delirium in me or not?"

"Alright, you sick fuck," John says, crawling closer to him and pulling Tim's arm over his own shoulders. "Let's do it."

Tim smiles and fills with anticipation and goes hunting for the squid in the vastness of the ocean in his feverish dreams.

It works.

It works just like that fission bomb Tim keeps Ginger confined within.

They drive to Tim's house next day, John fondling Ginger's tentacle on the bed while Tim pulls out his lead isolation. Then John ties him up and does some heavy lifting as well, covering his Bavarian sausage of a body with the aprons, Tim feeling wonderfully _compressed_ underneath them, John chucking his glistening clothes and stuffing Tim's mouth with his underwear, a nasty chuckle escaping both his and Tim's lips. John puts his knees around Tim's head and spreads his cheeks, presenting Tim with his hole Tim won't be touching, and Tim starts thinking things, and John starts saying things, and the clock starts ticking.

_Who the fuck are you to order me around_, Tim thinks and struggles in his ties. _Dumb, spoiled, sassy little shit._

"You are a worthless piece of trash," John says and pushes his fingers into his hole. "Arrogant, self-important bastard."

And their anger management issues kick in.

_I've hurt the only two people I love_, Tim thinks and feels cold sweat on his skin. _I've done nothing but break them._

"You don't even know how to love," John says and takes his fingers out. "You only love yourself. You only cause pain."

And their paths diverge.

_I've dragged you in my shit_, Tim thinks and shakes in shame, gritting his teeth around his gag. _I've made you deal with my damn fuck ups. You beautiful, naive, responsible fucking idiot._

"You never think about anybody else," John says and shakes in pleasure, pressing the dildo against his hole. "You don't fucking care. You heartless fucking shark."

And the countdown reaches zero.

_I've put Ginger through hell and I'm not sorry_, Tim thinks and digs a shallow fucking grave. _The more he loves me the more I make him suffer. That tender, selfless, accepting fucking moron._

"You are a fucking monster," John says and fucks himself on Ginger's tentacle above Tim's guilty head. "We love you, and you just hurt us in return. You never give. You only take."

And truth stings them both.

_I should've never touched either of you_, Tim thinks and feels the rocks and dirt falling down on his horrible body. _I shouldn't be let anywhere near you. I should be fucking dead._

"I fucking hate you for what you've done to us," John says and looks at Tim's icy stiff mask of a face. "I fucking wish you were dead."

And they descend into delirium.

John's pretty face is a shattered piece of marble.

John's pretty face isn't pretty anymore.

John's obsidian sword of a body is hot with fury. John's hand is on his cock.

Tim isn't there.

Tim is just pure misery.

"I wish you died in pain," John says, flushed with arousal, moving his fist fast, staring down at Tim with contempt, with shock, with silent cry for help.

"I wish you suffocated," John says and comes on Tim's non-existent face, a wanton moan on his bitten lips, and spits on Tim's unforgivable snout, saliva sparkling on his twitching lips.

Tim chokes.

Tim strains his muscles in his ties, Tim jerks his hips up, Tim wriggles like a harpooned shark, Tim tries to escape his imaginary burial site. Tim's frenzied. Tim snarls around his gag and sneers around his gag and laughs hysterically around his gag, and chokes on it, and John pulls his gag out.

"Come on," Tim says. "Fucking do it already. Throttle me."

John pulls the aprons off his horrible body. John's in a hurry. John's fucking hands are shaking. Tim's hands are tied. John pulls at the rope. John pulls at the knots. John fucking fumbles. Tim's hands are free.

"Come on," Tim says and grabs John's fumbling hand and puts it on his own throat.

"Come on," Tim says and grabs his own cock and grips it tight.

"Fuck," John says, and Tim presses on his hand, Tim digs his ruthless fingers in, Tim scrapes John's skin, Tim answers John's cry for help, Tim chokes himself and makes John join him.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," John stutters, and presses on Tim's throat, and holds him by his hair, and digs his fingers in his skull, and bursts into tears, and chokes him, and he loves it.

Tim comes like that and fucking loves it.

And he is not alone in that.

"Fuck, I really wanted to hurt you," John whispers in Tim's ear, his body shivering in Tim's consolatory arms, Tim's body radiating deadly particles, Tim's mouth exhaling harmful fumes. "I fucking liked choking you. I am a sadist."

"Yeah," Tim says, his fingers combing John's hair, John's overwhelmed breath radiating heat. "But that's alright. I am into that. And I had it coming."

"I am a fucking monster too," John says, voice breaking. "I am just like you."

"God, no," Tim says, voice reassuring. "You are nothing like me. You are a good person, John. I am human garbage."

"I could've fucking killed you," John says, sitting up and staring down at Tim.

"No way," Tim says, smirking at him. "First of all, I would've stopped you."

"How?"

"I would've broken your guitar jerking fingers," Tim replies. "I am not opposed to violence. I am very good at breaking things."

"Fuck."

"Also, you don't have the guts to kill me," Tim adds. "You're paralyzed by fucking love."

"Fuck you."

"I mean, in the end all of it is just pretense, John," Tim starts again, taking John's resentful hand in his own. "All this servitude of mine we enjoy here. All that masturbatory regurgitation I engage in with squid. Sure, it's an amusing illusion. But. It's all bullshit."

"What?"

"I've fucking eaten both of you," Tim goes on. "It's not just Ginger. I've fucking eaten you as well, John."

"You haven't," John objects, a naive idiot he is. "Fuck you."

"I have," Tim retorts and Tim's correct. "You are just made of a less digestible material, you know."

John bites his lips.

"But I've swallowed you too," Tim says and lights up another cigarette. "So you wouldn't have killed me. You can't."

John chews on his lips.

"Would you kill yourself?" he asks after Tim takes a few drags. "Would you really kill yourself if I told you to do it? Or is that fucking bullshit too?"

"Of course I would," Tim says and pats John's thigh. "_That_ isn't bullshit. You're my moral compass."

"Fuck," John says and hugs himself by his shoulders. "Ginj..."

"Yeah, he wouldn't survive that," Tim says, a painful smile carved into his face. "I would need to kill him first."

"Fucking hell."

"And probably you too."

"Fuck," John says and shudders. "Would you seriously do that?"

"Of course," Tim says and sighs. "I am not opposed to murder either. I am not against deliberate death. I only mind stupid accidents."

"Fuck, Tim," John spits out and John is frightened. "How can you even talk about this like that?"

"I've thought about it a lot," Tim readily explains. "I mean, I kinda feel like I will have to do it at some point. With any luck, it's not going to be because of me. But nothing is forever. One of us will probably develop an illness that's incompatible with life. Or with life that's worth living."

"Jesus, Tim."

"There're four horsemen, you know," Tim goes on. "Cancer, heart attack, Alzheimer's and fucking diabetes. Take your pick."

"God, you're insane."

"I don't fucking like these slow, painful and humiliating bastards," Tim continues. "I prefer murder-suicide. So yeah, I'd better kill you guys myself."

John whines.

Tim pulls him closer.

John falls in his welcoming embrace not entirely ungracefully.

"How?" John asks fourteen billion years of trembling snuggling later. "How would you do it?"

"You seriously want me to tell you?" Tim asks, looking at John's beautiful face.

John nods.

"Okay," Tim says and smirks. "I'd shoot you in your dumb heads full of dumb love. I'd put you both on your knees in front of me and stick guns into your fucking mouths. And dildos up your holes. You know, last ride and so on."

John hums uncertainly.

"And after you come I'd shoot you," Tim narrates his plan further. "Oh, and I'd let you kiss beforehand. Always fucking forget about it."

John giggles hysterically.

"Anyway, I'd shoot you after you come," Tim says. "And then I'd kiss your dead mouths too. And stick the dildo in Ginger's. Because he is a shit eater."

John jabs him with his fingers. Tim slaps his hand away.

"And then I'd kneel over your corpses," he concludes. "And shoot myself. With both guns. Head and heart. And hopefully I'd fall on top of you."

John lies silent in his homicidal embrace for several minutes.

"Wouldn't you want to come too?" he asks suddenly.

"What?"

"You said you'd make us come before you shoot us," John says and shivers. "Fuck. Fuck. What about you?"

"Nah," Tim says and chuckles. "I don't deserve it. I'd die stiff."

"I think you should," John makes a proposition. "I think you should come in my mouth."

"In your _dead_ mouth?" Tim makes an enquiry.

"Fuck," John says. "Yes. Fucking hell."

"You want me to come in your dead mouth?" Tim asks, voice full of teeth.

"I don't _want_ you to do that," John says, voice full of indignation. "But like... I think you should. If you were to... Fuck."

"Okay," Tim willingly agrees. "I got it. I like it. It's a good idea. Very fitting. You do love my junk."

"Fuck you," John says.

"Thank you," Tim replies. "Oh, and thank you for throttling me too. That was divine."

And Hypnos hugs both their mortal remains.

***Eleven point one hundred eighty six***

The greeting process is threefold.

The day Ginger comes back to the house with a dark room and a pagan temple Tim holds the door open for him and holds his pitiful cadaver in his arms, and Ginger is covered in lines and ruined by flying and passes out in bed after Tim stuffs him with filling that he luckily doesn't have to chew for him, but it's close.

The next morning they are awoken by their early nightingale, and Tim cooks breakfast, smoking in the kitchen. Tim cooks eggs and asparagus for Ginger and pineapple pancakes for John, and John sits in Ginger's lap and asks him about his DNA based bonding experience and braids his hair, and Ginger shares both the stories and his food with him, and Tim just licks some roe spread off a slice of bread and washes it down with coffee, towering over the babbling bastards with a smelly smile.

Then they go through their usual procedure of getting high level blood sugar and roam the streets both in the car and on their feet, holding hands and bumping into people when they are outside their vehicle, singing along to dumb songs on the radio when they are inside, their pockets and their mouths full of Ginger's fucking nuts. Then it is benches and incessant kissing. Then Tim gets tired and makes an offer that cannot be rejected, because it is not like anybody present has free will.

"Hey, Ginj," he says, tapping him on the shoulder. "Wanna go get your filthy hole reacquainted with our aching cocks?"

The physical altercation that happens after that is still followed by going back home, and all three of their cocks are fucking aching during their drive.

Tim drowns in sugar for some time, kicking off his clothes and grabbing the lube and observing John's manual labour John enthusiastically performs both on Ginger's awesome cock and on his deeply missed fucking hole, Ginger adding sweat to the solution that is filling the room, John providing them with his famous whining, Tim mixing in the radioactive blood, creating their intricate cocktail.

Ginger gets on top of John. Tim gets hungry. Ginger gets called a shitduct. Tim gets called a sick motherfucker. John gets to dive into Ginger's warm mess first.

Tim goes through those gates as well. He does it ugly.

"Oh fuck," Ginger pants out, Tim's heartless hands yanking him back by his shoulders, Tim's angry cock replacing John's, Tim being careless and cruel, John looking up at Ginger's pathetic face and showing Tim his own fracturing one. "Oh God, Tim."

"Good?" Tim asks, John's sympathetic hands on Ginger's stuttering hips, John's cock waiting in line, John being careful and kind, Ginger demonstrating him his ever-present lightbulb. "Enjoying this, you shit?"

"Yes," Ginger forces out, flapping like a flag in empty space within the atom. "Fuck, yes."

"Tell us what you are," Tim commands, his callous fingers wrapped around Ginger's throat.

"I am your food," Ginger says, complying, shuddering in tight confines of four very different hands. "I'm nothing. I'm just your food, Tim."

Tim purrs. John bites his lips and keeps his insolent objections inside his oral cavity. Ginger breaks into tears. Ginger breaks. Tim shows his teeth. Tim shows mercy.

"Console the soilpipe," Tim instructs, lifting Ginger's bleeding body off his cock and pushing him on John's. "Tell him how we feel."

"I love you, Ginj," John follows his order, wiping the salt off Ginger's tender skin. "Fuck, you're so hot. I want you so much."

And plural's absent, but Tim doesn't really mind. Tim's distracted. Tim runs his palm down Ginger's still not missing vertebrae.

"John," Ginger breathes out, shivering slightly under Tim's menacing touch, the rhythm of his movement getting structured, John giving him his talented support. "Oh God, John. I love you too."

The bastards chant each other's names, Tim's wretched chest measuring the time for him, Tim's plutonium in a state of continuous decay.

"Gonna come," Ginger says, moaning around his hidden electric light, sending charges down Tim's warhead of a body. "Oh fuck, gonna come."

"On John?" Tim asks, pulling at the sweaty mess of his hair. "Or do you want to clench your crap on me?"

"On you," Ginger surrenders his gasping phonemes. "I want to come on you."

"Come here," Tim sends an invitation card to him. "I'll fuck your shit. I'll make your fucking dreams come true."

He hammers in. He growls at his gain. John whines at his loss.

"I want to..." Ginger attempts to soothe the greedy jerk and wavers. "Oh fuck. I want to... suck... my filth... off John."

"Fuck," John says and doesn't sound calm at all. "Fuck, Ginj."

"Come on," Tim urges the reluctant predator. "Stop being so squeamish. Squid fucking likes it. Squid likes his mess."

"Fuck," John says and puts his hands on Ginger's blazing face. "Okay. You can. Ginj, you can. I want you to. I want you."

"Thank you," Ginger says and moans. "God, John. Thank you."

Tim chuckles. Tim shifts his forage. Tim looks at John's transforming face and fucks Ginger's pulsing hole, Tim's hands leave burn marks on the translucent skin, Tim's eyes carve into the marble shell, and Ginger clenches on his cock, Ginger comes on him and on his own fucked up terms, and sucks John's cock and makes him come as well, John spills inside his shitty mouth with a sobbing, yet still obscene moan, and looks at Ginger with his blurry, yet accepting eyes, and fucked up love is in the air.

Tim breathes in these loathsome fumes. Tim falls face forward between Ginger's cheeks and licks his filth they both have a taste for. Tim falls into orgasmic bliss like that. It lasts forever. But when it ends, Tim falls on top of sobbing shaking soaking kissing bastards and joins them in bacterial exchange.

He's still allowed.

They lie in a crappy pile of limbs for fourteen billion years.

That period is terminated when Tim hears some growling. He figures shit's not enough. He leaves the bastards to enjoy the sound of the strings and goes into the kitchen and tells them they are not welcome in there until he says so. He works his culinary magic. He creates a thing of abhorrent beauty. The bastards grow impatient. He cordially accepts his cannibalistic guests.

His masterpiece of a seafood pasta is yearningly consumed without any use of forks.

They sleep in a stuffed pile of limbs in Tim's hospitable house full of sexual degeneracy and bizarre rooms.

When Tim wakes up it is because his personal squid he'd recognize even being dead accidentally brushes his tender tentacles against his metal shell.

When Tim wakes up it's almost dawn, the walls are grey, his back is broken, his mouth is full of dry blood, John is puffing out the air on his neck and Ginger sits slouching on the bed.

"What the fuck?" Tim whispers, slurring his words. "Why are you up?"

"Can't sleep," Ginger shrugs and wrinkles his pale face.

Tim sighs and moves his heavy head and scoops his depleted warhead of a body off the bed.

"Come on," he says, taking Ginger's scared hand in his own. "Let's go smoke on the balcony."

They set aflame three cigarettes each and share a bottle of beer.

"What is it?" Tim asks, looking at Ginger's face he'd be able to make out inside a black fucking hole. "Missed me?"

"Yeah," Ginger says, nodding his capitulation.

"You fucking junkie," Tim says and shakes his heavy head. "You just can't refuse drugs, can you?"

"Fuck off," Ginger says and pushes him in his thermonuclear chest.

"How can I?" Tim asks and pulls him closer. And pats his back.

He finds Ginger's cock with his hand that is so eager to help. He finds it big and hot. He finds Ginger's cock with his obliging hand and puts Ginger's equally accommodating one on it instead.

"Suck my fingers," he demands, lighting up another cigarette.

"Of course," Ginger says and sounds just like food would if it could generate the units of speech.

"Suck my fingers and come for me," Tim says and smiles, all teeth. "I'm gonna stay and watch."

Ginger complies. Tim thinks of magic.

Ginger hums in gratitude and sucks his fingers. Ginger gasps around them and pushes into his own hand. Tim lazily puffs out the smoke and stares right into his eyes and clearly sees what they are full of. Tim keeps his promise.

"Give it to me," Tim says.

And Ginger comes for him. He comes all over his own hand and moans around Tim's. Then Tim slaps his face. Tim doesn't supress that urge. Tim kisses his warm, soft, wet lips. Ginger cannot help but fall into his arms. Fall into his trap.

They smoke, Ginger on his butt, pressed into the balcony railing, Tim in front of him, sitting on his feet.

"What do you want, Ginj?" Tim asks, feeling nauseated.

Ginger lolls his head back, showing him his throat he has his own desires and his own dreams about.

Ginger bites his warm soft wet lips Tim's kissed for fucking eternity.

"I want to be happy," Ginger says after another one of those. "I want to be loved. I want to be wanted."

Tim wants to vomit.

"And I am," Ginger says and cries and shakes pathetically. "God, Tim, I am."

"Yeah," Tim says and puts his heartless hand on Ginger's chest, pressing over it, chasing the mirage, feeling Ginger's profound love under his fingers, feeling them touching his aching, raw, vulnerable essence that fills the empty space around them. "You are."

And Ginger nods and Tim smiles and pulls him to lie on the floor and get fucking lost in their somnifacient ocean already.

John finds them hugging on that shameful surface in the morning.

John fucking giggles.

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End file.
